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!)