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....)

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)

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.)

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.

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!)