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WINNING!

    About two months ago, I made a bold and daring facebook post that may have altered the universe as we know it.  After a particularly bad day (even by geographical single mom standards), I posted that ‘Karma is a fat lady out to get all the skinny bitches on the planet’.   That mistake was HUGE, and within twenty-four hours I had managed to lose my phone, have the crappiest run of my life, and one of my kids came down with a stomach virus—right smack in the middle of the family room carpet.  Yes, Lady Luck had decided to work against me, and I was a helpless victim against an enraged (and obviously fat) Fate.

                Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t put a lot of weight into luck—mainly because I have never been one of the “lucky” few.  I am the person who finds a rattle snake beneath her kitchen window, has had a lizard crawl up her pants, and accidentally flashed the UPS man when my towel got stuck in the door.  I got knocked up in Vegas, broke my shoulder over spring break, and accidentally adopted a feral dog.    But all of THIS was finally about to change… because on the day after St. Paddy’s Day (2011) my daughter found a patch of 4-leaf clovers in the backyard.    A rare event by anyone’s standards—even more monumental due to the fact that  I pay Trugreen $67 every six weeks to keep my yard weed free (obviously I am over paying them).

                Anyway, I promised myself that I would buy a lottery ticket (something I NEVER do unless I am sending packages to soldiers overseas), and set out to meet some friends for dinner.  But as all things luck-related usually work for me, I forgot about the clover, had a grande martini, and woke up the next morning with a headache and a blinking answering machine… apparently Lady Luck didn’t have my cell number.  I chose to ignore the answering machine-- everyone important knows to call me on my blackberry-- and I continued on with my day.  But one can’t ignore Fate for very long…. she is one persistent biatch, especially when she has diabolical plans to rock your world.   So what did she present me with???  Brace yourself for this awesomeness (drum roll please)….. I won a goat.  As crazy as it seems—and trust me, I am an army wife so I know crazy-- I actually won a raffle for a GOAT (and not one of those cute little ones that you can brush at the zoo, but a big, hungry, horned goat. )  Once again, I was the butt of some colossal cosmic joke.

                Now, life is never exactly what you plan, and although city girls should probably never own farm animals, I have decided to embrace my new goat ownership status.  I have named him Karma, and I totally plan to get this goat FAT in her honor.  My new hideously ugly pet reminds me daily that luck comes in all shapes and forms, and is never predictable but rather earned.  It is this kind of simple joy, of finding humor in the most ridiculous of situations, that keeps me placing one foot in front of the other every morning.   It would be so easy for me to curl up in a ball, and shut out the pain that the army has brought us.  But it is those moments in life where you find yourself calling your best friend and laughing until tears stream down your face that you realize that there is a method to the madness of the universe.   My children may already understand the definition of sacrifice, but they also believe wholeheartedly that love can conquer all—even fate.  Last Saturday, Fate presented me with exactly what I needed: joy, laughter, and the reminder that life can be painful and confusing but also overflowing with joy.  The miracle has nothing to do with winning a prize, but rather getting to the finish the line with your heart still intact.

                So to those who are wondering what my furry friend, Karma’s, fate will be.  I will tell you this:  Karma will most likely be living on my parent’s ranch, but will make a very important journey to San Antonio for the next Army-Navy game.  To those who are local, you are welcome to come to one Hell of a party.  Beer, martinis, and cabrito asado will be served. 

26.2

                Every good army wife will jump at the opportunity to escape.  Maybe its a few hours at the spa.  Maybe it’s a quiet night at home with a book.  Maybe it’s a drunken girl’s night out where you wear a pair of scandalous shoes and keep tallies every time a guy hits on you.  All of these are great, and I admit, I indulge in all of these mental vacations.  But my biggest—and most loved-- diversion involves over 800 calories, a long windy road, and about a quart of gatoraid.   For those that aren’t tracking yet, I evade life by running.

                Now don’t get me wrong, I never actually win a race. I have no Kenyan blood flowing through my veins, and my cheeks are purple for HOURS after I am done…but running seems to be about the only thing lately that brings me a sense of peace. Now before you ask, I am not some alien-life-form that will tell you how awesome it feels or how it will get easier the more you run.  Nope.  Not true.  It’s as much of a suckfest for me as it is for you.  My lungs burn, my legs cramp-- and worse yet, I am no longer afraid to pee by the side of a road.  I smell like a barn when I am done, and I have to rub lubricant all over my body in summer because I am somehow manage to chafe in places that I didn’t know existed.  Yet, I still run-- willingly.

                Why?

                The answer may sound just as crazy as the running itself.  Last year, when I first learned of my husband’s upcoming deployment, I started to struggle.  A small fault line formed along my soul that sent out waves of anxiety every time I let my guard down.  Simple things, like eating dinner with my kids or folding laundry, became riddled with panic attacks, and I was absolutely positive that I had earned enough frequent flier miles for a one-way ticket to Crazy Town.  It had only been a little over a year since his last deployment, and the thought of dealing with all of the crap again was more than I could consciously handle.  Life came to a screeching halt about three weeks after we learned of his future   ‘holiday’ to Iraq. I was driving home from a Chuckee-Cheese-like-restaurant with the kids, and the car was strangely quiet.  Music was playing softly over the radio, and all three kids were starting to head bob and doze.  I can remember debating with myself if I should stop the car and re-position all of their little heads— their current state practically screamed future chiropractor bills-- but I decided to keep going.  A storm was brewing to the South, and I didn’t want to be caught in a Texas deluge.  What happened next still mystifies and confuses me. I have no memory of anything suddenly spooking me—no deer jumped in front of the car, no sudden noises from my cell phone or my kiddos—but suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.  My chest started squeezing, my stomach started somersaulting, and I was certain that I was somehow in the middle of massive heart attack.  I could feel myself starting to blackout, and I gripped the steering wheel in a panic as my vision began to tunnel .  To this day, I am grateful that this grand-daddy of a panic attack happened on a back road in Sequin, a few minutes later and I would have been deep in the heart of I-35 traffic, and probably squished by a semi. 

                Thankfully, I did manage to regain control of my car, calm down my racing heart, and most importantly… I admitted that I needed help.  I was sent to an off-base psychologist through Military One Source, and started my weekly army-bashing sessions with a VERY patient woman named Sharon.   Now Sharon, as all shrinks, gave me a lot of good advice, but there was one thing she mentioned that very first session that brought me to my knees.  After listening to me rant and rave for a good forty-five minutes, she held up a hand and shushed me (a very bold move when dealing with a slightly-off-her-rocker Army Wife).  Slowly she handed me some tissues, and asked me… if I RAN regularly.  Wondering if this was some sort of test that she expected me to fail, I smiled and smugly responded, “Why yes I do.  I run 20 minutes on a treadmill three times a week.”

                Sharon nodded, patted my hand and calmly said, “Run more.  Because it's hard to run and feel sorry for yourself at the same time.”

                And so I did.  As my mileage went up, my life started to come back.  Slowly at first, just like my initial mile times, but started gaining momentum, just as I started gaining control again over my emotions.  Running became the ultimate metaphor to me— that your spirit needs just as much exercising as the muscles in your body, and the hours I spent pounding out a rhythm on a Texas road started to feed my soul.  Somehow, the simple act of running managed to save me in every possible way. 

                So, to those who are wondering if I still suffer from panic attacks, the answer is a very sobering yes… but not to the frequency that I once did.  I no longer consider myself destined for the sanatorium, but rather a very high functioning lunatic…just with a really firm ass. I guess what I am trying to say is this:  life is a series of hill and mountains, sometimes all you can do is just get over it.

Almost Wonder Woman... but not quite.

Three nights ago, I spent the evening in a hotel in downtown San Antonio.  I was attending a conference not far from my home, and had managed to reserve a room for two nights within spitting distance of the Alamo.  The weather was beautiful, the conference informative, but it was the total silence of my little hotel room that had me doing naked cartwheels (while singing cuss words and drinking wine straight from the mini-bar) around my bed.  The very moment that I managed to shut the hotel room’s door: I kicked off my high heels, let my hair down,  plopped down in the middle of the floor… and waited.  The sky did not fall, my children—and thankfully, grandma—were all still alive at home, the emails from my phone finally stopped blinking, and I was blissfully alone.

  A few texts came in. “Do you want to go running on the Riverwalk?”  No.  “Do you want to grab a bite to eat.” No.  “Interested in drinking few martinis at the hotel bar?”  Ummm... what kind of vodka—Smirnoff?-- HELL NO!  

But what I did crave, was to be free of responsibility, expectations, unrealistic goals, and that damn strapless bra that had been suffocating me since lunch.  I wanted to soak up that golden silence, and forget, for at least two hours, that although I always felt totally lost and alone… I unfortunately, never could be.   The United States Army had appointed me the Queen Bee of the Lonely Hearts Club—and with it came a ton of responsibilities, phone calls, text messages, and tear-filled mommy moments.  My kids needed me (most often, when I was in the middle of washing my hair).  My students needed me.  My friends needed me. My deployed husband needed me.  And without even realizing it, I had practically become the Red Cross of army-family-support, providing enough transfusion’s of encouragement to keep the heart of the US Army beating strong.

 But it had left me drained. 

                For those that actually know me, this may come as quite the shock.  I am the one-woman-army who wakes up, runs a ba-jllion miles, teaches, and then takes the kids to their evening activities (all at exactly the same time, and usually completely across town from each other).  I am almost always smiling, wearing a kick-ass pair of shoes, and able to provide the most inappropriate sarcastic remarks that leave people smiling, laughing, and mumbling, “That’s our Amy…” But what the world does not see, is the fractured woman that can only keep moving forward because the thought of stopping-- and having to re-start the freight train on the home front-- is too daunting and terrifying to even contemplate a rest.  I run a million-miles-a-hour because the journey of life constantly threatens to leave me behind, and there is no way I could ever possibly catch up carrying three kids, a deployed husband, and an endless war on my shoulders.   Last I checked, only a Super hero could shoulder that load—and let’s face it, there is no way a tiny 5’4” thirty-something could ever pull off a pair of red go-go boots and a cape. 

                So, like so many other army spouses, I am in desperate need of some super-human powers.  I know in my heart, I should be celebrating that I have somehow managed to power through the first half of a deployment—I have just done eighteen longs months as a geographical single mom  AND all my kids are still growing, I am still employed, and the house has yet to burn down.  But I can no longer find the energy for the expected fist-pump, and the yellow ribbons around my oak trees are starting to fade.  Across this great country, military families and marriages are in crisis.  Suicide amongst service members and spouses are on the rise.  Behavioral disorders in military children are becoming increasingly common.  Divorce is the norm. The statistics are staggering—the backbone of support for our nation’s military is starting to crumble, and my family is no exception.

                 I have long ago accepted that unless I happen to fall into a vault of toxic waste, my most powerful weapon was going to be my voice.  As much as I would love super-human strength or x-ray vision (and before you ask, yes, I would totally peek into the guys locker room), the best I can offer this world is awareness.  I may only have six more months to this deployment, but the United States is invested until, at the earliest, 2014.   Apparently, the mental breakdown that I have so rightly earned is going to have to be postponed for a little bit longer; and until then, I guess I will just have to find peace and solace by sitting in the middle of the floor in my underwear while listening to the cars blow past the hotel window.

 And to those who nonchalantly walked past the downtown Residence Inn on Monday and happened to notice a naked woman drinking wine in the middle of her hotel room… You’re welcome.

Military Uniforms: Helping Men Score Wives for Over 200 Years.

To be honest, I don’t even know where to begin my long-winded ramblings as a questionably sane army wife in the form of a blog.   I guess I should start at the true beginning—that is,  when I first laid eyes on my husband at a very classy (think college budget here)  Best Western Motel  just outside West Point, New York.  I fell head over heels for him, embraced my inner slut, and had one naughty hook-up with a guy named Jim.  Yes, he was handsome and built.  Yes, he looked smoking hot in his gray cadet uniform.  Yes, he charmed me with his ability to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ AND to chew with his mouth closed (something that seemed to totally dupe most of the college frat-boys that I was currently used to dating).   I married that hot set of abs a year later at our extravagant full-blown military wedding, and we skipped off into the sunset to live out our own version of happily-ever-after.   Little did I know, amongst my newly found domestic bliss, that the terrorist attack of the century was looming in the future.

                As with so many other Americans, 9-11 changed everything for me.  Every preconceived notion I had ever formed about army life came crashing down with those twin towers.  I was newly pregnant, and I knew instantly as I witnessed the mayhem erupt across Fort Leonard Wood that my life of constant military balls, coffees, play groups, and grad school were over.   The United States was at war, and with a sinking realization it finally dawned on me, that I was currently married to an officer in United States Army.  I kissed goodbye the innocence of youth, and braced myself for the bitter truth: that I, the pampered Yankee that could barely boil water, was suddenly going to be the head of the house.  Childhood was over.  The courtship was over, and  I might as well convert to Mormonism, because there was a new man in our marriage—Uncle Sam—and he was one demanding biatch.

                Fast forward several years to where the true story begins—or at least where the story begins that I will share with you.  Seven month ago, I said goodbye to my husband again-- his third journey in five years and our second consecutive year apart.   I have seen my husband for less than 60 days in the past two years—and the Amy he left is probably a much different Amy then the one he will return home to.  I juggle three kids, a part-time job, a volunteer position, and continual marathon training with all the grace of an elephant on a high-wire.  My life is insane, unpredictable, and messy… but in its own weird way, still amazingly blessed.

  I now know, that I am in the middle of a journey—and in the end, the destination will be inconsequential.  Life has taught me—sometimes via a swift kick in the keester-- the true meaning of sacrifice, courage, true love, and inconceivable pain.  My husband may be the one currently living in a war zone, but don’t think for a minute that his family doesn’t wage their own battles on the homefront.  We do.  Loneliness, depression, insomnia, and anxiety are the names of the army spouses’ battles, and we fight them everyday—most of us, with a baby on one hip and a blackberry in hand.  To the army wife, the greatest fear isn’t that our spouse will never come home— heck, we have already learned how to live without them—but to the army wife, well at least this one, the greatest fear is that we will forget how to live all together.  That somehow life will slip by, months at a time gone, as we try to navigate through the monstrous hurricane of a deployment.   To some, the only way to muddle though a year separation is to pack their hearts on ice, and to isolate themselves in a tiny cryogenic world where they are numb to the pain and frozen in time. But, life doesn’t have to be sink or swim—sometimes it is  simply both—and it is at the lowest moments when you are about to hit rock bottom that you realize that life is so much more than just enduring.  It is at that precise moment in time, when you realize you are stronger then you ever imagined,  and are somehow capable of propelling off those rocky trenches at the bottom of the sea.  Strength isn’t always about how many pounds you can carry in a rucksack across a stupid desert, but rather how you can learn to find courage and happiness—even when half of your soul is thousands of miles across the globe. 

 Seven months ago, my best friend, and fellow army wife, shared an amazing pearl of wisdom with me after her husband returned from his fourth combat tour.  I was broken, overwhelmed by the thought of a second year apart from my husband, and I was sinking fast.  She called me on the phone, listened to my doubts and insecurities, and threw me the life vest I needed to continue the swim.   With the calm voice of experience she schooled me,  “Amy, There is strong.  There is Army strong….. and then there is Army Wife Strong.”