Obstacles

It’s been a few weeks since I have written, and life seems to have sort of exploded. Semester two of grad school is in full swing, I am in the middle of my first internship working with victims of domestic violence, coaching for the American Cancer Society, hoping to land a graduate research position, and debating applying for my phD in the fall. I am completely obsessed with Crossfit, spend all my paychecks on shoes (wait until you see the pair I got for next weekend’s gala!), and I still live life as a geographic single mom rushing the kids from activity to activity. I workout, work, go to class, go to soccer practice, and totally high five myself when I manage to have a day where I shower AND feed the kids something that didn’t come from the freezer. Of course…. those are the normal aspects of my life: kids, work, school, frozen pizza…

But there are also those issues that I don’t like to mention....like the fact that I am writing this entry from a hospital while receiving IV meds into my arm. Now, for those who know me (or follow my blog as they should) you probably know that I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease last year. Jim was in Iraq, and I totally viewed the disease as something that I could conquer. A few diet changes, cut back on the martinis, strict workout regime, a war ending in Iraq….and Bam! I would be miraculously healed (cue the harps and trumpets).

Ummm Yeah….. that didn’t work out so well. I gave up gluten, I exercised like Jane Fonda on crack, I tried to get at least 5.5 hours of sleep each night, but my symptoms kept getting worse. For the first time in my life, I was losing ground. I was tired. I was in pain. I was emotionally sinking-- faster than Lindsey Lohan after her third DUI. And I was forced to make a decision: continue down the current path or start using the hardcore drugs—even if those drugs have some heinous side effects. To be honest, both options scared the hell out of me and after a long five hour pity party (thank you Monica for listening to me rant) I finally stood up, stared myself down in the bathroom mirror, and got ready to fight.

So here I am. Receiving an IV drip of meds in my arm for the next two hours, getting hugs from the nursing staff (even though I drove straight to the hospital from Crossfit and I probably smell like a farm animal), and saying a silent prayer that it will work. Yes, some things in life have changed: I have to come every six weeks for the infusions, I will forever be immuno-compromised, and I will probably never be able to secure a sweet deal on life insurance ever again. But really….who gives a crap? I am still me. Tomorrow, I will wake up and go to work; I still plan to go for my phD; and I am running the Marine Corp Marathon next October in order to qualify for Boston. Life may not be perfect, but it isn’t exactly all bad either. Sometimes you need to encounter a few obstacles along the way to appreciate the blessings in your life—after all, it makes the sweet flavor of success taste that much better. (Just please God… I would consider it a personal favor if success didn’t taste anything like frozen pizza…)

(See, I wasnt kidding about the sweaty workout clothes...)

Cwazy Ninjas

Last Friday I got together with a group of friends for the monthly pubrun. The theme was “tattoos and tiaras”, but my special-borderline-brain-damaged group of friends decided that we wanted to kick it up a notch and run as ninjas. Yes, I am in my 30’s and I was running around San Antonio dressed all in black, a karate belt, and a samurai sword. Yes, I was having an amazing time running around the city telling everyone my name was “Amyson”. And yes, I managed to twist my leg on some uneven pavment, earning myself a grade two pull in my calf muscle and two weeks of no running. Cwazy ninja?? Apparently, yes.

Mimes, Ninjas, Cholesterol.... the silent killers.


As I sat down icing my leg (injured cwazy ninjas are required to sit still for long periods of time), I started reflecting on how life can take you where you least expect it. In fact, life has a way of sneaking up on you, and going all ninja-effing-crazy just when you think you have a routine down. Found a way to balance work and school? Let’s throw a 15 hour/week internship into the mix. Start coaching for the American Cancer Society? How about a calf injury to tend too. School is FINALLY back in session for the kiddos…. And all three start coughing like 1920’s tuberculosis patients. Life-1; Amy-0.

I guess what I am saying, is that sometimes you are the ninja—but sometimes life is. Deployments, injuries, illness, job issues—they all can sneak up on us and wreak havoc in our carefully constructed life. We can plan time for friends, dinners that don’t involve peanut butter and jelly, and use impressive spreadsheets to map our fitness progression; but we can’t control the universe. Sometimes you just may be running down the street in San Antonio, minding your own ninja business, when you trip over an invisible crack in the sidewalk. What you do next is up to you. You can sit there on your butt and wait for life to resume some balance—OR you can ninja-up. For the past week, I have been working my ass off in a crossfit gym. It’s humbling (borderline humiliating at moments), I am stuck in a stupid-looking compression sleeve, and I will be coaching this week on a bike alongside the runners. But hey, life may have temporarily took me down, but I managed to find a way to regain some foothold. Life- 1; Amy-1. The lesson here: There is nothing that can’t be accomplished with a ninja star.

Ninja philospohy: Eat. Sleep. Dominate.

New Year. Same You.

Two weeks ago, I met with my doctor to discuss the meds that I was currently taking. I had just returned from Cabo, and my stomach was in absolute knots. I felt like crap, I looked like crap, and to add insult to injury my skin was exactly the same shade of plaster-of-paris-white that I left with (apparently Irish skin requires more than 30 hours to receive any noticeable tanning other then the time-honored-beach-induced splattering of freckles). School had just finished for the semester, my kids were off on holiday break and already whining about universal boredom, and my job had temporarily slowed down for the holidays. By all accounts, I should feel rested… or at the least, look rested. But I wasn’t.

Maybe it was the fact that I accidentally swallowed some water while brushing my teeth in Mexico, and knew that I was going to die a slow and painful death (more than likely during takeoff and landing the following day). Maybe it was because the busiest four months of my life had finally culminated to 20 hour days. Maybe it was because it was Dec 18th, and I still hadn’t managed to throw the inflatable Santa into the front yard. But whatever the reason, I felt sick and knew that the pesky autoimmune disease that I had been fighting the past year was starting to get the upper hand.

Fortunately, I did what every good patient does when facing a symptoms increase: I whined, tried to ignore it, attempted to blame Mexico for all my woes…. And then finally stormed into the doctor expecting a few more pills and maybe some steroids. No big deal. Christmas would go on as usual, and I could keep pretending that I was totally healthy. Unfortunately though, the news I received floored me, and sent me into a tailspin. My doctor explained to me that I was probably going to need to be put on a strong immunosuppressant called Remicade, and that this drug was only available via an IV infusion once a month. Oh… and the IV’s take about 2-3 hours, so make sure you have plenty of time to deal with this. Free Time? Not exactly. Compromised immune system for the rest of my life? I don’t have free time, so I definitely don’t have time to be sick. IV infusion? Hell, that sounds like something out of Star Wars.

I sat there staring at him, like he had suddenly grown an extra head, waiting for the punch line. When exactly did this disease get the upper hand? Why couldn’t I control it? How am I ever going to be able to live a normal life with this kind of timebomb lurking in my medical history?

Now I am fairly positive that it was the longest as I sat anywhere without making a noise, and thankfully my doctor waited for me to process all the information.

“Have you been faithful about taking your meds Amy?”

I sat in silence.

“Have you really tried to avoid eating gluten? Wine? Red meat?”

I sat in silence.

“Have you even attempted to reduce your stress level at all?”

I sat in silence.

“Have you ever accepted that you may have some limitations?”

And that’s when I answered.

“No….. to everything.”

You see, I never took my diagnosis seriously enough, but rather just hoped the pills would make it go away and I could forget about it. But science has yet to discover a miracle pill that just blows away an illness leaving you feeling refreshed and energized—like a day at the spa-- but rather creates a multitude of treatment options to reduce symptoms and improve your quality of life… but they come with a price tag.

No, I never took my meds faithfully—I tried, but there were days when I forgot, vacations I forgot to pack them, and moments when it was just to inconvenient to bother…. So I didn’t. And no, I never cut out foods from my diet. Gluten is in freaking everything, and I didn’t have time to read lables and plan meals; heck, I have Papa Johns on speed dial on my phone. And finally, no, I never attempted to reduce my stress level, but rather piled on much as humanly possible and worked my way from crisis to crisis.

Suddenly, I realized that I was my worst enemy, and the battle I was fighting had nothing to do with an autoimmune disease, but rather trying to convince the person in the mirror that she could handle the world. People have always viewed me as strong. I am the Army Wife who has a sassy mouthed response for just about everything. I can run a marathon, stand emotionless at a funeral, survive a deployment… but I couldn’t be bothered to make a few insignificant life changes.

But this week is a new year-- another chance at a brand-new do-over-- so I left the doctor with the request to give me three more months. I gave up gluten, scheduled the crap out of my life so that I had some guaranteed downtime, and promised myself that I would start listening to my body. New Years is a time for resolutions and recognizing those aspects in your life that need to be adjusted. But living requires you to make those changes—whether it’s Jan 1st or Dec 31st-- so that we don ‘t keep repeating the same mistakes of the past. Wisdom comes with time. Acceptance comes with recognition. Peace comes with understanding. Cheers to all that 2012 brings you.

And as for accepting limitations? No. Sometimes you just need to give your doctor a little Army Wife Attitude and respond, “F#ck limitations.”

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…

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!

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.

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.

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….

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....)

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.)

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)

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)

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...)

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.)

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"

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!)

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!)

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.)