tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77544298899720709332024-03-12T22:01:04.354-07:00The long and short of itLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-48312065035764353852022-06-21T17:33:00.000-07:002022-06-21T17:33:37.179-07:00From Pearl City to Blue Pearl<p> In the fall of 2015, while my husband was out of state for work, I saw a picture of an adorable black and white female puppy and her brother on Facebook; Border Collies, it said, and they needed homes. Their backgrounds were questionable, but I went anyway because I had to have one. They were located on a dirt road in Pearl City, HI from a somewhat suspicious couple in a rundown duplex apartment. Knowing I was going to "the ghetto" of Oahu, I even took a kind male neighbor with me who agreed to serve as my bodyguard. When we arrived, the male puppy was already taken, but the female was available. She was roughly 9 weeks old and 11 lbs. I took her to the vet immediately. She was covered with fleas and had every kind of intestinal parasite you can imagine. I loved her anyway, and I couldn't wait to surprise the kids when they got home from school. Armed with all kinds of medications to make her healthy, I set everything up at home before walking to school to get the kids at dismissal. Walking home, I informed them that I had a surprise waiting for them. Hunter & Maddy, ages 7 & 5, were excited and begged to know what it was. 9-year-old Tally immediately said, "It's a puppy, isn't it? I know it is cause I know YOU." (She really burst my bubble, but I kept her guessing the whole way home.) As soon as they met her, they loved her, and she loved them. We named her Nani which means <i>beautiful</i> in Hawaiian. </p><p>As the months passed by, it became clear that Nani was NOT a Border Collie. Her legs stretched well beyond the length of a typical Border Collie, and she eventually topped out at 75 lbs, much heavier than a Border Collie. She was our Hawaiian poi dog (mutt).</p><p>She had beautiful light brown eyes with long white eyelashes. She chased light and pounced on shadows. She ALWAYS greeted us at the door with a smile and a sneeze. She was a chronic counter surfer, and nothing was out of reach. We had to put a strap on the kitchen trash can or else we'd come home to a mess. She hated snuggling but always wanted to be near. She detested anyone touching her feet. She was perfect in the bathtub. She loved being brushed. She lived for car rides, bones, ear rubs, walks, and her people. She always told us when she needed to go outside and when the clock struck 5pm (dinner!). She filled our house with fur. She constantly watched out the window for passers-by and alerted us when she saw a threat. She followed me EVERYWHERE. I was her person. She blessed our family for 6 short years, from Hawaii to Louisiana to Maryland, and it will NEVER be long enough.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0hDCjWyHod_ZLrCfpcTMs8Bi27aCk4G-YVvkJhMR2_AkuX7m9Mt5WS42ZOrJxrJHRJjBFUjgpCEIjKjK8p0CemkDSwXUgnomhuqxKlxGOtE0_wCSuWvcZq7qu6mD_Pk-fDRXww3MiC3Gkwzdwbaiv07DzpcURpzhQBAk3tEmnV64-GlM7jN4OH3Y/s3024/IMG_0207_hq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV0hDCjWyHod_ZLrCfpcTMs8Bi27aCk4G-YVvkJhMR2_AkuX7m9Mt5WS42ZOrJxrJHRJjBFUjgpCEIjKjK8p0CemkDSwXUgnomhuqxKlxGOtE0_wCSuWvcZq7qu6mD_Pk-fDRXww3MiC3Gkwzdwbaiv07DzpcURpzhQBAk3tEmnV64-GlM7jN4OH3Y/s320/IMG_0207_hq.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinjY_MkwgbpSz0EjH0CCtcK6z6ssvnSaRl5ASXb-BrE4RM0K-1LxkJbTNqGcoT7kd3jfW5Rl35UQ3IaofnjeYCeW63I-u-eObBhZZTBnsnVky-50b4oEPt76j8i4mNY58FlX7s7XTcruj7sQdZOAp5mdtihTg-DIrQlJ3V3WGBXXmZwuixGhFS_z9U/s3024/IMG_0312_hq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw61_IBrk1nYQJyDEDMNqJxEqcMDRv7p_JG0nn4EmMNMf4NesnfM54Jw2cOObau6SbRzEL3bwHyzD1JNr5R4VLTC85l-dpIJXzwQ75GxTeEAvHUVDPz8QW6TESANwq9YBCX0ATXKo0FiT2DAoakrsCZw8eGhtfeni0wjCxdhYgbNEGXME--_vL-O7i/s3024/IMG_0141_hq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="3024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw61_IBrk1nYQJyDEDMNqJxEqcMDRv7p_JG0nn4EmMNMf4NesnfM54Jw2cOObau6SbRzEL3bwHyzD1JNr5R4VLTC85l-dpIJXzwQ75GxTeEAvHUVDPz8QW6TESANwq9YBCX0ATXKo0FiT2DAoakrsCZw8eGhtfeni0wjCxdhYgbNEGXME--_vL-O7i/s320/IMG_0141_hq.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-43510641410648212372019-06-06T00:16:00.001-07:002019-06-06T12:15:00.287-07:00Finding OneC.S. Lewis once said, “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.” Truer words have never been spoken when referring to a military spouse. With family living so far away in most cases, friends (or framily, as they are often called), become our everything. Friends serve as our stabilizers, our comfort, our balance... they fill the void vacated by the other friends we left behind and the friends who left us.<br />
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Oftentimes in a military community, spouses befriend others by mere convenience and opportunity rather than by common interests and similarities alone. For instance, more times than not, we instantly try to click or bond with our neighbors. We peek out our living room or bedroom windows to see what family is moving in next door or across the street, and we jump at the opportunity to meet them. We find ourselves suddenly having to check our mail, walk the dog, or retrieve something small we must have left in the car “by accident.” While we’re out there, we just happen to see them, talk to them, introduce ourselves, scan their children for approximate ages and genders, and run back inside to text another neighbor down the street all about them. Then we sit and ponder if that new spouse next door is the one. Will we have coffee dates? Play dates? Game nights? Will we sit outside and chat while the kids play? Will our husbands get along? Did I come on too strong?? It all gives a whole new meaning to “love thy neighbor.”<br />
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In all the excitement, there is hope... hope that the new woman next door is the one... Correction: hope that she will be the next one, because we all know that other ones pre-dated her. We lose sight, however, of the fact that this woman who just moved in next door is also wondering who lives in the other houses around her and how long they will be staying. When you’re the new spouse on the block, you’re eventually the one left behind, and the cycle continues.<br />
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The late Leo Buscaglia, an American author and motivational speaker, was quoted as saying, “A single rose can be my garden; a single friend, my world.” One real, true friend can be the world to a military spouse, especially during times of deployment. Even when the service members are not deployed, they may spend days, weeks, or months in the field, TDY, or engaged in various training exercises. The military spouse, therefore, is home holding down the fort... literally. Day in and day out we singlehandedly fulfill all the parental duties, housework, grocery shopping, cooking, errands, bills, etc. Without a friend to lean on who can provide an escape, an out, or a distraction for a little bit of time, our worlds would unravel. The realization that we are not alone and can and should lean on our friends reciprocally is a huge step for a military spouse. Some spouses play tough and are determined to handle it all alone. Some head in the opposite direction and actually lean too much. Somewhere in the middle there is a balance that we all must learn as we live cohesively together in this crazy thing called a military community.<br />
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This partnership of leaning on each other reminds me of a scene in the movie “Forrest Gump” when Bubba and Forrest find themselves in the combat-ridden, rainy Vietnam. As they lean their<br />
backs against each other and attempt to sleep, Bubba says to Forrest, “I’m gonna lean up against you. You just lean right back against me. This way we don’t have to sleep with our heads in the mud.” Here we are as military spouses, leaning against each other (and with each other) to keep our heads out of the mud.<br />
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So what happens when One leaves? Do we fall? Do our heads hit the mud? To some extent, yes. Initially, we are hit with a bout of loneliness. We cry. We mourn the “loss” of our friend. We convince ourselves that no one will ever replace her or fill her shoes. We feel alone. Eventually, however, we start to dig ourselves out of the mud. We emerge from our hole of pity and sadness and look out the window to see a moving truck parked outside the house across the street. We wonder, Could it be another One? What are the chances? Do I dare engage? Is it worth the inevitable heartbreak? Inexplicably, undoubtedly, unquestionably, yes!<br />
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-1278494709768379662019-03-02T20:06:00.001-08:002019-03-02T20:12:06.261-08:00ChangeWhen we arrived in Hawaii in early July 2015 we had a 4 year old, a 7 year old, and a 9 year old. We also had an 11 year old miniature dachshund. We were excited to start our island life. We already had friends that we were joining, we knew which house was ours, and I was adamant that I was NOT going to work; I was going to enjoy Hawaii and be a stay-at-home mom for the 3 years that we lived in Paradise.<br />
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Fast forward almost 4 years, and here we are preparing to move again. We are leaving Hawaii. We were blessed to gain an extra year here. We are leaving with an 8 year old, an 11 year old, and a 13 year old. The kids have grown so much. The youngest one doesn't even remember living anywhere else other than Hawaii. Her skin is sun-kissed tan. Her blond hair has sunshine highlights. She plays outside constantly, soaking up that tropical sun every day with the plethora of sweet neighborhood girls.<br />
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Our oldest is a perfect mixture of sassy, smart, stubborn, shy, and sensible. Despite leaving middle school with one year to go before high school, she doesn't complain. She looks forward to what our house and community has to offer in Louisiana. After researching the various schools in the area, she weighs in with just one request... "Please don't send me to the school that has uniforms!"<br />
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Then there is the boy... the one who worries me the most. The one who struggles with anxiety and ADHD and, despite being brilliantly smart and bright beyond his years, he struggles in school because he cannot pay attention in math class when he has such a good book to read that is distracting him in his desk (most recently <u>White Fang</u> by Jack London). So he comes home at the end of each week with a packet of incomplete work that he must do before he can play. Middle School will eat him alive. I hope he's happy in Louisiana and that he can make friends.<br />
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I am leaving Hawaii with a very bittersweet feeling in my heart. I've been happy here. I have made friends that I will always keep. Many friends have already moved away. Some I will leave behind. (Thank goodness for modern-day technology!) Ultimately, I was a stay-at-home mom for about 2 months before submitting an application to be a substitute teacher, and then I ended up teaching full time for 3 out of 4 years here. I bonded with coworkers that will be my friends from here on out. They have seen me laugh, cry, succeed, fail, grow, plateau, overcome, and learn every day.<br />
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Our dachshund who came to the Aloha State as an 11 year old left us as a 14 year old last fall and crossed "the rainbow bridge" in a place where rainbows are plentiful. This transition to Louisiana will be the first time we have ever moved without him in the 6 moves that we have made. I miss him every day. Our "Hawaiian poi dog" that we acquired from the streets of Pearl City 3 years ago will go with us this time. She has her quirks, but we love her just the same.<br />
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I cannot reflect on our lives here without mentioning the one person who is responsible for bringing us here in the first place. He works a lot. He often works late. He has an exceptional work ethic, and he provides for our family (especially since my teaching salary does not, but that's another story!). He puts up with my constantly shifting ideas of what I want to do with my life (children's book author, Yoga instructor, tennis player, avid runner, etc.). He keeps chugging along at his career and takes the good with the bad and makes sure that we all have everything we need (and a lot of things that we want). He even thinks he "gets me," and he's always willing to appease me when I get restless and need to travel or make a change in my life.<br />
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Change. Everything is changing. We will live in a different state with different neighbors in a different house on a different street and drive a different car in different weather in a different part of the country. I am comfortable here. Part of me is already lamenting everything that I will miss when we are gone. The other part of me is excited about what is coming ahead. We will be ok. Through all the change, we still have each other. We will trade our pitaya bowls and poke' for crawfish and we will embrace it and continue to be happy together.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-2652996432183948462018-01-15T13:28:00.001-08:002018-01-15T16:01:45.346-08:00The Missile That Never WasThe morning of Saturday, January 13 was one not to be forgotten for anyone on any of the Hawaiian islands. Over the past few months on Oahu, the state has tested its emergency siren in order to be prepared for a possible attack, but it always seemed hypothetical. We carried on with our daily lives and ignored the siren like we were instructed to (if we could even hear it from wherever we were at the time). During these drills, I always happened to be at work with a classroom full of inquisitive 2nd graders. How do you explain to 20 7-year-olds that the siren alerts us in case of a missile attack? The answer: very carefully. We were always told that if a missile was launched in our direction from North Korea, we would have roughly 15 minutes from the time of the alert to the time of impact. What do you even do in that amount of time?<br />
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On January 13, however, I was not at work. I was at home on a lazy Saturday morning. I was sleeping in, as was most of my family. It was just past 8am, and as I lay in bed, trying to convince myself that I needed to get up, I heard my phone buzzing uncontrollably. As I reached for it, I noticed, surprisingly, that my husband, Johnathan, was not in bed like I thought he was. I assumed he must be out getting our weekly box of donuts at the local bakery. When I looked at my phone, which was still buzzing frantically, I saw the words: EMERGENCY ALERT: BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.<br />
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My heart sank. I did a double take and literally shook my head in an attempt to change the words that were in front of me. Unfortunately, I had read them correctly. Before I could even budge, Johnathan came barging into the room yelling my name. Thankfully, he had not yet left for the bakery (although he had keys in hand to do so). He has an uncanny ability to think clearly in a time of crisis. I do not. "We have to go!" he said. "Get the kids!" I jumped out of bed, suddenly very awake but thoroughly confused. <i>This can't be real, </i>I kept thinking. Suddenly, someone banged on our front door. I heard loud panicked voices. It was our neighbor, Danielle, and her two daughters. One of the daughters was crying and saying, "What is happening? Where is Daddy?" Her daddy was out on the north shore of the island, surfing, unreachable, and probably clueless to the danger that was lurking.<br />
As I rounded up my three children, Danielle closed the windows in our living room, and my husband put our dogs in the back yard with bowls of food. (The children have still not forgiven him for leaving the dogs behind.) Johnathan, Danielle, 4 kids, and I piled into our van, ready to go somewhere, anywhere other than our historical, wooden homes that would never survive a missile attack. It was then that I realized one of my 3 children was missing. The 12 year old... <i>Where was she?! </i> She had run to the neighbor's house two doors down where she was dog sitting for the weekend. Of course, in this time of panic, she was following her heart and making sure those two dogs were ok. Johnathan ran over there to get her out. Finally, we left, not sure where we were going. As we drove away from our house, I texted family back in North Carolina, telling them just the facts: "We received an alert that a missile is headed to Hawaii, and we are seeking shelter." I quickly received emotional replies of "I love you" and "Keep us updated." I choked back the flood of emotions that entered my mind and refused to respond with anything resembling a goodbye. I didn't let my mind go there.<br />
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We saw multiple neighbors running towards a big building of soldiers' barracks nearby. We quickly parked, jumped out of the van, and joined them as a soldier waved us into the concrete room on the first floor. The first thing the kids noticed was that the multiple families in the room all had their dogs with them. We did not. All 3 of our children begged us to go back and get our dogs. Of course, we could not. There was no time. Our 15 minutes until impact was quickly expiring. Any second now we would hear and feel the blast. Upon entering the room, I became teary eyed as the seriousness of the situation hit me, and I realized this might be real afterall. The mood was somber, but all I could say was, "This can't be real. This can't be real."<br />
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I saw a soldier filling a huge jug full of water. Prepared families had backpacks full of emergency supplies. We did not. My kids kept reminding me that we left our dogs behind. My conscience was filling with guilt and worry. As the minutes crept by, people were quiet. The women and children were in their pajamas. People held their dogs tight so that the dogs did not get out of control with each other. The younger children played innocently with the few toys they brought, clueless to what was happening. Older children wore the worry on their faces. The men, all active duty soldiers, answered their phones that were ringing off the hook from their commanders and fellow soldiers. The women were very quiet, waiting for what was to come. Every minute was an eternity, not knowing how long we would be in there and what the world would look like whenever, if ever, we were able to leave...<br />
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Then suddenly, to everyone's relief, one of the men announced, "False alarm, Guys! False alarm. There is no missile!" The tension in the room suddenly dissipated as if someone had popped our balloon of stress. We filed out of the concrete makeshift "safe room" and all went home. We went on with our normally scheduled day as if nothing had ever happened, but something did. The reality of it all never left our minds. Everyone who experienced the "missile that never was" carried the worry for the rest of the day or longer. We can't get it off our minds. It's still there. It was stressful. It was surreal. It left us feeling helpless. But it left us with something else as well... the desire to be more prepared. I hope we never have to experience anything close to that again. But if we do, you better believe we will have flashlights, food, water, first aid kits, and a good idea of where to go at the ready. "The missile that never was" was actually a huge wakeup call, and I am listening.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-39465930039554756842017-07-18T16:23:00.000-07:002017-07-18T16:23:14.199-07:00My Baba<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Heaven has an angel whose name is Frances Jane.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although I really miss her, I know she's free from pain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'd love to have one day with her and feel her warm embrace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But this time when I see her, she'll remember my face.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I want my kids to see her and sit right by her side.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They were far too young to remember her before the day she died. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tell my kids about her, and she protects them from above.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know she's up there watching and sending down her love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh how I miss my Baba! I wish that she was here.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It made my heart so happy just knowing she was near.</span><br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-31871512191981112782016-05-08T16:20:00.000-07:002016-05-08T16:20:03.505-07:00Sleep is OverratedFor as long as I can remember I have been a sleepwalker. I recall unbelievable stories from my childhood that were told to me by my mother.<i> </i>I vaguely remember walking across the hallway from my room to hers, slamming into her bedroom door, and crumpling to the floor in a heap. I barely remember (again) walking from my bedroom to hers, pulling my pants down, and squatting over her trashcan to use it as a toilet, only to have her desperate screams wake me just in time as she guided me towards the bathroom. I must have been 8 years old. I remember seeing my mother blocking the top of the stairs with furniture to prevent me from sleepwalking down them. It didn't work. She found me walking in circles at the bottom of the stairs claiming (when asked) that I was watching TV.<br />
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I wasn't always mobile. Once my mother peeked into my bedroom to find me sitting up in bed with my arms stretched out in front of me. She asked what I was doing, and I angrily explained, "I'm going to a wedding!" She inquired whose wedding it was, and I replied, "Santa Clause's!!" Why so angry? I've always wondered why my sleepwalking antics are usually accompanied by desperation and frustration. My tone of voice is apparently always grumpy or panicky, even today.<br />
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I read an article that stated that most people outgrow sleepwalking during childhood or adolescence. So why am I an exception? If anything, my sleepwalking has escalated, and the frequency has most definitely increased during my adulthood. Early in my marriage, I would often leap out of bed to turn on the bedroom light (in the middle of the night, of course) because I was certain there was a humongous spider descending upon my face. As soon as the room was illuminated I would wake up to find myself standing by the light switch in fear, and my sleepy husband would be staring back at me from the bed wondering what in the world was happening. This episode happened repeatedly.<br />
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One night, about 6 years ago, I began slapping my husband on the shoulder as he slept, trying desperately to wake him. I was certain there was a helium balloon floating near the ceiling of our bedroom, and it was dangerously close to the ceiling fan. I was desperate, and he could hear the panic in my voice as I interrupted his sleep. I have never seen him move so fast. He jumped to his feet and stood on his pillow and began swatting at the "balloon" near the ceiling. His abrupt movement and throwing back of the sheets woke me from my episode, and I then began to laugh hysterically as I watched him swat at the imaginary balloon that, just moments before, I could see clear as day. He soon realized what had happened and was not amused. He covered himself back up and attempted to resume his REM sleep. Unfortunately, I had a horrible case of the giggles. That was the one and only time that I had pulled him into my sleeping imagination. I still laugh myself to tears just thinking of that night.<br />
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When I was 8 months pregnant with our youngest child in 2010, I moved faster than any enormously pregnant woman has ever moved. I jumped out of bed and began crawling in panic-stricken circles on the floor. Once again, my movement woke up my husband. It was the funniest yet confusing thing he had ever seen, he later said. He asked me what I was doing, and I began explaining, "The machine! The machine is gonna get me!" He asked me what machine, and I did not know its name. I described it as a round, robot-vacuum that was relentlessly chasing me. He became amused when he realized I was describing a Rumba. I have been weary of these machines ever since.<br />
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Most recently... just last night actually... I awoke at 2am to find myself banging on the closet door, desperately yelling<i> </i>for help. This time my husband was away, so he was unable to witness what must have been quite the scene. Once I snapped out of my episode I realized that I had stripped the bed of all the sheets, and they were all on the floor. I quickly became annoyed because before I could go back to sleep I had to make the bed. Today I am very tired.<br />
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I do not know why people sleepwalk. I wish I did because I am certain I would feel much more rested on a daily basis if I could actually sleep the whole night through consistently. I wonder what a video camera would capture during the night. I usually only remember the moment right before I wake up and find myself in a strange place... the floor, in front of the closet, by the light switch, or even in bed watching my husband swatting at imaginary balloons... I wish there was a cure. Although, if there was, there would be significantly less stories to tell later!<br />
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<i><br /></i>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-20569257632190885112013-07-14T15:17:00.004-07:002013-07-14T15:34:09.953-07:00A different day, a different wayThe first time my husband deployed, I was 25. I had a new born baby, and I can still remember how I felt as I drove home from dropping him off in the middle of the night with that tiny baby girl in the back seat. When I say tiny, I mean all of 6 lbs 9 oz of tiny. She was a peanut. (It's hard to remember just how tiny that really was until 4 1/2 years later when I had a 8 lb 4 oz baby girl and thought SHE was tiny! But I digress.) I can still see the buses lined up at the drop-off zone. I can still vividly see the hundreds of soldiers with their full A-bags and perfectly packed ruck-sacks standing around, waiting for the word to load the buses. I did not want to see them actually load them. It was a kiss-and-go farewell. I held myself together relatively well - well, as well as a young wife and new mother can when saying goodbye to her husband of 2 years at the brink of a 1 year deployment while living in a foreign country. I refused to look him straight in the eyes. I knew if I did, I would lose all composure. Then I lost it anyway. I watched him open the back door of the car. I watched him lean over the infant car seat and kiss our baby girl goodbye. That was all it took. I was done. We hugged one last time, and he was off. He grabbed his heavy Army bags and slowly wandered off towards the others. I quickly jumped behind the wheel of our VW Passat and fumbled with my keys until I finally found the ignition and drove off to our quiet German home, less than 10 minutes away. I sobbed the entire trip. <em>I'm not strong enough for this</em>, I thought. <br />
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Four and a half years later, I strangely found myself in the same boat... except this time I was 30, I was actually in the U.S., and the newborn baby girl was the youngest of 3 kids instead of the one and only. We were a family of 5, and we all loaded in the minivan and drove my husband of now 7 years to his drop-off point for another kiss-and-go farewell. This time it was in broad daylight, and I lost my composure again as I watched him hug and kiss all 3 kids goodbye. I refused to let them see me cry, but I sobbed all the way home. <em>I can do this</em>, I kept telling myself.<br />
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Fast forward 2 1/2 years, and I was in a different boat entirely... sort of. There was no newborn baby. The kids were 7, 5, and 2. My heart hurt for them as they said goodbye to their dad for what was the seven-year-old's third time and second time for the other two. It was broad daylight again, and this time it was not kiss-and-go. We stayed. We mingled with other Army families who were dreading the final moment of farewell. Everyone attempted to put on a happy face as they nibbled their cookies and sipped their juice, but the elephant in the room was the fact that all the soldiers were leaving for 9 months, and some of them <em>may </em>not return. Nine months. Piece of cake. The other deployments were a whole year, so 9 months should be nothing, right? Right... I had to get out of there. I gave my husband "the look" and we headed outside. Apparently kiss-and-go is the way to do it. We all gathered around the van, gave our hugs and kisses, and said goodbye. Then he headed back inside, and we drove away. I didn't even cry<em>. I've got </em>this, I said. <br />
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For a while I wondered what on earth was wrong with me. How could I possibly say goodbye to my husband of almost 10 years and not even shed a tear? Didn't I love him anymore?! Was I so heartless?! What was wrong with me?? Sure, I got a little choked up the first night when I walked up the stairs alone and stared at the empty bed. I missed him terribly when we hit our 10-year wedding anniversary 2 months later and he was not there. I missed him something fierce when the kids and I embarked on our extended summer vacation, and he was not there to look at the star-filled sky over the ocean, or when he missed my birthday, or when I was feeling completely exhausted by day 5. But I never really cried. Finally, it hit me. I guess there really is nothing wrong with me afterall. I'm just... seasoned.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-89053856427306436622012-11-18T15:15:00.001-08:002012-11-18T15:15:03.436-08:00A Strange Story on Range 17Exactly six years ago today my husband returned from a year-long deployment to Iraq. I remember it like it was yesterday. To celebrate the anniversary of his return, I want to share one of my favorite stories he has ever written from that 2005-2006 deployment. This is a true account of something he experienced as he and the other soldiers waited for the word to enter Iraq...<br />
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"A Strange Story on Range 17"</div>
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The desert in Kuwait is a barren and desolate place. If you take the time to stand in the middle of it, you could look around in all directions and see nothing surrounding you but sand and sky. The feeling is comparable to being on a deep sea fishing trip; the girth of absolute solitude wears on the mind and the winds shift the sand like waves. It's nearly impossible to track where you are, where you've been, or even where you're going. This foreboding place is where the 2nd Platoon Roughnecks call home. </div>
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This platoon of 33 infantry soldiers fall under the leadership of myself, 1LT Martin, and SFC Rainer, their platoon sergeant. The boys, as I like to call them, all come from vastly different backgrounds, and to the casual observer appear to be the perfect manifestation of the great American melting pot. Upon more thorough inspection, it becomes apparent what all of these young men have in common. Joining the Army was, more often than not, their best and last option. 30% of this platoon is Hispanic and hails from such infamous locals as Watts, Compton, South Central, and Long Beach. To this 30% or so, life in the Army couldn't possibly be more dangerous than life back home. They have mixed emotions reading emails about their friends back home being locked up, dying in gang violence, or even worse, dying inside as a result of drug addiction. There are others too - a couple from the industrial complexes of New Jersey who joined the Army as jobs were outsourced to India and other places. They joke about the outsourcing potential of Iraq when we're done there. There's one African American soldier, a transplant from the Navy, no doubt a product of the Navy downsizing its enlisted force. Overall, they're just normal people in other than ordinary circumstances. Irregardless of the circumstances surrounding them being here, the "Roughnecks" of 2nd Platoon perform their jobs admirably and excel at whatever task they are given. As a leader of men, I could not as for a better group of guys. </div>
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It is not a surprise given 2nd Platoon's record for mission accomplishment that we were tasked with planning and conducting a battalion-wide M16/M4 marksmanship competition. This is no doubt an odd tasking for an infantry rifle platoon. However, the battalion commander considered this range a high priority, and in my humble opinion, selected the right guys for the job.</div>
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SFC Rainer came up with a plan, and once it was approved, we were prepared to execute. We left out of the gate our compound to head to the range and to start setting it up. I was in the lead of a small convoy of 3 vehicles: a HMMWV (HummVee to civlians), which I was in, a bus, and a LMTV, a large ungainly truck, the cab of which is covered in thick steel armor. With my map and radio in hand, the convoy stabbed out into the dry heart of the desert. We moved along seemingly lost trails and deeply rutted improvised roads for about 26 or so miles before finally arriving at our destination. By nightfall the range was set up and ready for business. We all ate our MRE's and went to bed, knowing we would have an early morning ahead of us. The morning came, the sun announcing its arrival through the comfy confines of my black sleeping bag with the visual audacity of a cannon blast. </div>
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As I shed my sleeping bag and asserted myself into the cold desert air, I observed the soldiers preparing themselves for the long day ahead. Four bus loads of soldiers arrived shortly after and after a range orientation and a safety briefing, we were ready to begin. Before shooting it is policy to conduct a "downrange sweep" of the area you plan to be firing in to ensure no animals or people are located in that area. While conducting our sweep. we noticed a large herd of camels. It is an idiosyncrasy of this region that camels roam everywhere. These camels are not wild. They have a shepherd who tends to them similar to how cows were herded in America's wild west. Unfortunately for the shepherds and the camels, the best grazing areas here are locations set aside for US forces to test and train with their various weapons. Hundreds of thousands of bullets and bombs are dropped or fired into this grazing area. Interestingly, none of the herders themselves are Kuwaitis. They are all poor immigrants who herd the camels and/or sheep for wealthy Kuwaiti owners. The herders makes less than 10 US dollars a day. Upon learning this, I immediately formed parallels in my mind to the immigrant experience in the US. I guess every country has its Mexicans, and your success in life is widely determined by where and to whom you are born. I digress.</div>
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Camels on our range, regardless of why they were there, was a problem, so we began herding them with the HMMWV. One large camel we pulled up to was sitting on its haunches. SFC Rainer leaned out of the window and yelled to the camel, "Get up, Private!" through his megaphone. We all laughed to each other as SFC Rainer flashed back to his days as a drill sergeant. Our laughter soon ceased as the beast complied and stood up. </div>
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SSG Tucker was first to speak about what we all saw. "He's taking a dump!" he said. I was second to speak as I reached across the cab and touched his arm. "<i>She's </i>having a baby!" I said. We all fell silent, our jubilation replaced by the shame that comes with blatant insensitivity. I immediately went to get the herder and inform him of the good news. Once we told him, I told SSG Tucker to slowly take us near the female camel who by then had resettled herself. We slowly crept up and found her lying on her side. We all exited the truck and waited for her caretaker to arrive. When the shepherd arrived, he misunderstood our intent and began to strike the soon-to-be mother with his staff. She reluctantly stood with her little one's legs and head sticking out. We shouted and waved for him to stop, and soon the camel was lying down again. All 5 of us who were present had kids, and I can't speak for the others, but the torment of that poor camel while she was giving birth made me feel a deep sense of sympathy for her pain, and it took me back in my mind's eye to the birth of my daughter. </div>
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The herder removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He grasped the calf by his legs and neck, and with a tug and a push from mama, the baby was out. He was small, skinny, and helpless. While the mother looked on trepidly, the shepherd rubbed the calf down with sand to help dry off his fur. We offered the shepherd a bottle of water to wash his hands, and he thankfully obliged. He then took the empty water bottle and filled it with fresh milk from the mother camel. The herder then fed the milk to the young calf. We all stood there in silence for a moment, five warriors lost in the universal power of birth and life. It had been there all along as we trained others how to kill and how to use instruments of death. Life found a way and continued on as it has done forever. We named the little guy Jared Brown after a soldier in our platoon, snapped some photos, waved at the herder, and then, as quickly as we had come, we were gone, off to continue our mission.</div>
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Training went well that say and that night. With soldiers firing around me and tracer rounds streaking across the sky from a distant range, I found myself looking upward. A huge full moon burned brightly in the otherwise black sky. The moon had rings of color around it - blue, yellow, orange, and red. It was covered with a delicate lace of thin, patchy clouds. SSG Tucker joined me, smoking, as we stared at the same glowing orb, and he remarked, "It would be perfect if I was looking at it with my wife." Lost in thought, all I could say was, "Yeah." In my head I tucked my daughter in and gave her a kiss goodnight. Then I turned and yelled for the next firing order.</div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-73145154765789793612012-06-01T06:43:00.000-07:002012-06-01T07:04:37.775-07:00Nine Years InIn two weeks my husband and I will reach our 9 year wedding anniversary. It's ironic that our anniversary falls on Flag Day, the Army's birthday. Our 9 years of marriage have been completely entwined with everything the Army life contains ... worrisome deployments, long separations, too much time apart even when he's home, Army first, family second, moving every few years, etc. And if I could pat myself on the back for a second, I think I have handled it well. I have learned how to be the primary parent in his absence. Like I heard in a movie recently, he's the back-up parent. We have made it through, and although it hasn't been easy, we're still looking forward. It will get better. As a mother of 3 kids, ages 6 and under, my whole life revolves around them. They are what have gotten me through the deployments. Without them, I would be lost and alone when he's gone all the time. When I learn of yet another upcoming separation, I immediately think of the kids and how it will affect them, not me. I think of all the birthdays he's missed, the ballet recitals, the T-ball practices and games, the kindergarten graduations, the first day of school, the first time our child rides the school bus, the holidays, and not to mention everything Maddy went through as an infant. He's missed a lot in our life together, and he will miss a whole lot more. Although it makes me sad (for the kids, not me), it has undeniably made me stronger. I am strong for my kids, and I am strong for myself because if I wasn't, I could very easily be miserable. It has been 10 months since he returned from Afghanistan. We are less than a year away from the next deployment. He will spend quite a bit of time between now and then preparing and training for that deployment, and he will be gone on multiple occasions for weeks at a time. Meanwhile, our family keeps moving right along, footloose and fancy free. We'll continue with the ballet and T-ball, and eventually school will start back again. We will celebrate what events he is present for and overlook the ones he's not. I am teaching myself to delete the rolladex of events he's missed because that can only create bitterness. It's our life. It's the way of the beast. And as we celebrate yet another anniversary apart in two weeks (and Father's Day and my birthday and a ballet recital), I will not complain because at least he is here today. And tonight I can stare at him as he sleeps in my bed and soak up his presence to make up for the days he will miss. And we will be ok.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-11974232658940585572011-09-18T19:36:00.000-07:002011-09-18T19:36:52.115-07:00BeamingAs I write this blog today, I am literally beaming with pride. I think back on everything my little Maddy has overcome, and I could not be happier for her. From the moment she was born, and I heard the word <i>clubfoot, </i>I knew we had some challenges coming. My Google searches on that word later proved that I was right. The doctors also confirmed my suspicions by telling me that she would be behind with most developmental milestones.<br />
At 3 weeks of age and casts reaching from the tips of her toes to the tops of her thighs, my heart ached for her legs that she was not allowed to use. <i>How frustrating it must be to not be able to move your legs</i>, I thought. <i>How irritating it must be to not be able to stretch or bend your legs! </i>But she proved to be a fighter, and she was the happiest baby I'd ever seen. It was as if she was telling me to have no pity on her, for how can you pity someone who's smiling? So we carried on, and the casts became just a part of her. They became such a normal part of our lives that her older sister even asked me one day why I had no baby pictures of <i>her </i>with <i>her </i>casts. She assumed that all babies had to wear them.<br />
At 4 months of age, while still wearing casts on both legs, Maddy rolled over from her belly to back right on time just like the average baby. By 7 months of age, with the casts replaced by an uncomfortable brace that held her feet apart at an angle, she was sitting unassisted. By 9 1/2 months, she was crawling with her brace. By 10 months, she only had to wear the brace while sleeping and was in physical therapy. At 11 months, she was pulling up to standing. Soon after, she was cruising around the furniture. In the midst of all her incredible milestones that proved not to be as delayed as predicted, the doctors continued to express concern for her development. I was baffled and annoyed. <i>How could they possibly see red flags when she's doing all these wonderful things?! </i>My pride for her continued to grow despite being surrounded by naysayers, and she continued to be the happiest baby in the world. My first two children were not walking by a year old, so I showed no concern that Maddy was not walking either. She would get it when she's ready. And then one day she did. Four days shy of 14 months old, Maddy was sitting in the middle of the living room. She looked at the floor, she looked at me, and then she put her hands on the floor in front of her. She leaned forward, sticking her little bottom up in the air, and she pushed off. She slowly and carefully came to a standing position, and she stared at me with the biggest brown eyes I've ever seen. Her face showed pure concentration. Her arms balanced her wide stance, and she began to smile. Her left foot moved forward a few inches, and then her right. She plopped down to the floor and gave me a huge grin. I couldn't help but grab her and squeeze her with excitement. A mother is always proud when her baby starts walking, but my pride in that very moment exceeded anything I had ever witnessed. Two steps are hardly called "walking," but for Madison Grey, it's a huge accomplishment. And now it's only a matter of time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9b44GeFrepA/TnaqgytpN8I/AAAAAAAAADE/S7cv6YUGy5M/s1600/CIMG3234.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9b44GeFrepA/TnaqgytpN8I/AAAAAAAAADE/S7cv6YUGy5M/s320/CIMG3234.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pofVOzEatZ8/Tnap5Gzh9bI/AAAAAAAAADA/Eigd2tbnGfA/s1600/0918111721+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pofVOzEatZ8/Tnap5Gzh9bI/AAAAAAAAADA/Eigd2tbnGfA/s320/0918111721+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-192761355986976252011-07-30T09:17:00.000-07:002011-07-30T11:12:59.280-07:00A Year in ReviewIn 9 days we will reach our 1 year mark since my husband left for deployment. You don't realize just how long a year really is until you're smack dab in it, waiting for your companion/partner to return. He has missed A LOT! I have learned A LOT! The number one thing I have learned is that if it came down to it, I know I can survive on my own. Single parenthood is not fun or easy, but I <i>think </i>I have succeeded. All 3 kids are still alive and relatively healthy. That is the goal, isn't it? The dog stays on his bed all day, but he seems to be ok. The yard has about 18 different grasses and weeds growing in it with a bunch of bare spots where the dirt shows through, but the kids still enjoy it. I continue to mow it every 1-2 weeks. The van smells like something died in it, and for the life of me I cannot figure out what it is, where it is, or how to get rid of it, but the oil is changed, the tires are full of air, the tank is full of gas, and from the outside, no one would know any better. The oven sets off the smoke alarm every time I bake something (and I <i>don't </i>burn the food!), but I have the speed of Super Woman when it comes to turning it off before the fire department is alerted. His side of the bed is covered in clean laundry, but I know exactly what articles of clothing are in that pile. Easy retrieval is essential in the morning rush to get dressed. In his absence, he has missed 3 1/2 months of Maddy wearing full casts on her legs, countless trips to Nashville to see her orthopedist, 7 months of her wearing a brace 23 hours a day, 1 1/2 months of her wearing the brace only while sleeping, several physical therapy appointments across town, her first birthday, and every celebratory milestone she has hit along the way. For Hunter he has missed a 4 hour trip to the ER to get 5 stitches in the head, countless ear infections, surgery to have his tonsils removed and tubes put in his ears (with a horribly painful recovery, I might add), numerous nightmares, his 3rd birthday, impressive temper tantrums, and all of the potty training (which I thought would never be done! Go me!). For Tally he missed all of pre-k, riding the bus to and from school for the first time, learning how to read and write, 2 dance recitals, 3 loose teeth (so far!), her 5th birthday, and it appears that he will miss her very first day of kindergarten. During his absence I endured a painful abdominal hernia repair surgery with a lengthy recovery and was forced to hire a full time nanny for a month just to survive. I backed my van into the neighbor's parked car. A bird flew into our house. Squirrels took over the attic. I handled Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Easter, and the 4th of July without him. I conquered 2 LONG trips to NC to see family (thanks to the help of family who rode with me!). And he missed my [insert # here] birthday and our 8th wedding anniversary. As we enter the last week of our year without him, I cannot help but look back at everything we have accomplished and be proud. I could not have done it without the help of fabulous family, amazing friends, wonderful babysitters, and helpful neighbors. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. I can only hope that he fits back in without a hitch and does not feel like a stranger in his own home. One thing is for sure... we will welcome him back with open arms!Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-18862263757828233682011-05-29T14:32:00.000-07:002011-05-29T14:32:27.050-07:00ImaginationWhen I was a kid, I spent many, many hours lost in my own imagination. I can remember playing house with my little sister for hours on end. My stuffed animals and baby dolls were all real, and just like in "Toy Story," they all talked and moved around when I wasn't there. In 4th grade I often played news reporter with my best friend, Jessica. One of us would look through an empty paper towel roll and pretend it was a video camera while the other one sat at the table and read made-up news stories. I just knew that one day I would be a reporter for real, or at least a journalist of some sort. My dad's house had a huge magnolia tree in the front yard, and I can remember playing under it countless times as a child. The long leafy branches made a fabulous fort. I also remember my older sister climbing it and getting stuck near the top. It was a a very tall tree. My Barbies all had names and varying personalities. My pound puppies were my real dogs, and I pulled them around on a leash. I also slept with the mama pound puppy one night with gum in my mouth, and I woke up the next morning with dried gum strung all over her head. It never came off. I had an amazing imagination as a kid, and it does my heart good to hear my own kids using theirs. I give Tally full credit for teaching Hunter how to pretend. She lives in a world of pixie dust, where arabesques happen spontaneously, and she probably wonders why everyone else doesn't suddenly twirl around unexpectedly like she does. As I sit here in the living room typing this blog, I can hear her playing with Hunter in the other room. The futon is a ship, and there are sharks in the water. I don't usually approve of them playing on my desk chair, but at this moment it serves as a boat that will roll them across the water to the island. Hunter plays along excitedly and is just thrilled to have his sister's attention and to feel needed in her imaginary world. I often find him playing with his cars, giving each of them a voice and playing out different scenarios like Tally does with her Barbies. That is most definitely indicative of her influence. It makes me wonder . . . did I have the same effect on MY younger siblings? Did I unknowingly teach my little sister how to pretend? Or is it something that comes naturally? Regardless, I am waiting for the day that one of my kids has an imaginary friend. Hunter has an imaginary monster that seems to come and go, but mine was so real I can still see her face. Kristi Ernie was her name. She was Vietnamese and lived in the house down the street. She visited often, and when we moved to a new town, she still visited frequently. She visited, that is, until my mom sent her home one day. Kristi Ernie refused to get out of my older sister's bed, and we were arguing about it. My sister was NOT happy that Kristi Ernie was in her bed to begin with, so she was yelling at me to get her out. Finally, my mom came in the room, and for the first time, she spoke directly to Kristi Ernie herself. She demanded that she get out of my sister's bed, and she told her to go home. That was the last time I saw Kristi Ernie. I can only hope to have to speak to my own children's imaginary friend. That just might do my heart good again.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-12595893592622965572011-05-22T06:55:00.000-07:002011-05-22T08:26:59.290-07:00LossNo parent is supposed to outlive their child. For the past 5 days my mind has been completely preoccupied with what a friend of mine is going through. We became friends in Germany. Our families traveled to Belgium together one weekend when I first found out I was pregnant with Tally. We often ate at a Greek restaurant together. My friend was always volunteering and helping other people whenever they were in need. I remember her bringing me Taco Bell one night with another friend simply because they were worried about me after I had a baby two weeks before our husbands all left for Iraq. And then this friend and her family moved away as military families tend to do quite often. We have kept in touch through Facebook but I have not seen her in a couple years. After they moved it was discovered that their 2nd son had a brain tumor. He was always so full of energy and silly. He endured multiple surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation. He put up a good fight for two and a half years. And then last week, he died peacefully in his sleep at the age of 11. Although they still live in Germany (in a different town from where we lived before), the funeral will be in Indiana. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that their hometown in Indiana is only 2 hours and 45 minutes away from where I am now. I hope that I will be able to make it. There is a feeling of complete helplessness within me that I am so far from my friend, and I can do nothing for her or her family. As long as I can work out the logistics with my own kids, I will be driving to Indiana one day this week to see sweet Nathan laid to rest. I cannot imagine the pain and torment of watching your child suffer for so long, fighting so hard, and then losing him. The world is not supposed to work that way. Lyrics to one of my favorite songs come to mind....<br />
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"Lord, make me a rainbow. I'll shine down on my mother. She'll know I'm safe with you when she stands under my colors, oh, and life ain't always what you think it ought to be, no. Ain't even great when she buries her baby. The sharp knife of a short life. I've had just enough time..."Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-72539861312473252172011-05-17T10:24:00.000-07:002011-05-17T12:47:15.910-07:00It's a bird!Today at approximately 12:00 noon, I was standing at the back door of my house talking to Tally who was in the back yard. She was so excited that she had just witnessed soldiers jumping out of an airplane and parachuting to the ground. The door was wide open, and suddenly something swooshed by my head. I looked back over my shoulder and saw a bird flying frantically all over my kitchen. I love to watch birds when they are in my yard or in a tree, but apparently when they are inside my house, I freak out. I yelled to Tally, "There's a bird in the house!" and I ran outside screaming. A moment later the dog took notice and started barking at the bird. I slowly crept my way back inside to keep track of the bird's movements just in time to witness him pooping as he flew over the coffee table and living room carpet. Since he was still fluttering about, I screamed again and ran out the <i>front </i>door. Two of my neighbors happened to be standing outside, and one of them came running to the rescue. She offered to bring her cat to my house to do the job, but I feared that my dog would eat the cat (although he would probably just lick it). The bird had landed on top of a window by this point, so we brainstormed ideas on how to catch it. Just as Tally came in with a box, the bird took off again, and I screamed while running down the hallway. Apparently I am useless in a crisis situation. Luckily, the bird then flew out the back door and everyone was safe. No one was pecked to death. Phew!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-suhCZIokiLA/TdKuF-LQ1KI/AAAAAAAAACw/FJiBKVsMOk4/s1600/CIMG3368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-suhCZIokiLA/TdKuF-LQ1KI/AAAAAAAAACw/FJiBKVsMOk4/s320/CIMG3368.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-16581618061388821722011-05-14T14:41:00.000-07:002011-05-15T11:56:06.077-07:00Reading is good for the soul.I absolutely love the feeling of finishing a good book. It is a feeling of satisfaction, yet, at the same time, a feeling of disappointment because there is no more of it left to read. Sometimes I wish a good book could just go on forever, and every night as I get into bed, I can look forward to reading it. The very end of the day is my most favorite time to read. All the daily chores are done, the kids are asleep, there are no interruptions, and I am able to read until I just can't keep my eyes open anymore. Rainy afternoons are great too, most definitely with a cup of coffee at my side. My most recent good book is <u>Sweet Jiminy</u> by Kristin Gore. I thoroughly enjoyed this book and read it in about five days from cover to cover. My house might have suffered a little bit while I took advantage of every opportunity I had to read, but it was worth it. <u>Sweet Jiminy</u> is the second book of Kristin Gore's that I have read, and I loved the first one just as much. She may very well be surpassing Jennifer Weiner as my favorite author. Now the never ending search for a good book continues as my last search comes to an end.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-57635467377692448282011-05-13T10:16:00.000-07:002011-05-13T10:38:50.561-07:00Painting by the Window.I cannot help but chuckle as I listen to my 2 oldest kids (ages 5 and 3) carry on a conversation while they paint on their little kids' table by the dining room window. After about 10 minutes of diligent painting, Tally, my 5 year old, gasps and says, "Oh, Hunter! Your picture is so beautiful!" Hunter shows a huge grin on his face as he responds, "You think my picture is bootiful?!" And he continues to add more paint strokes to his paper of multi-colored scribbles, his face beaming. Tally continues to praise him, saying, "Yes, it is, like, totally beautiful. So pretty. I love it." So now even if he thought about quitting (which usually doesn't take very long), it is no longer an option. As Tally completes picture number 3, Hunter finally finishes picture #1, which might possibly have more water on it than actual paint. The two of them go back and forth between bickering ("Hunter, you're mixing the colors! Look! You've ruined the yellow! I wanted to use yellow and now it's brown.") and gentle, kind praises of love. Hunter apologizes for ruining Tally's favorite color ("I'm sorry, Tally. I am so, so sorry.") And Tally moves on to picture #5, designating each one of her paintings for someone different (but most of them for her BFF next door). Listening to the two of them actually getting along for once melts my heart. I can only hope that as they grow older, they will continue to love each other and become the best of friends. This world needs their love.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gnSmV-qJ6sc/Tc1q3Y07z3I/AAAAAAAAACc/xhWVcgx415M/s1600/CIMG3354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gnSmV-qJ6sc/Tc1q3Y07z3I/AAAAAAAAACc/xhWVcgx415M/s320/CIMG3354.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hunter's Painting</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kE4If5SPKpc/Tc1q4zR5R0I/AAAAAAAAACg/hSfksB6VKGk/s1600/CIMG3355.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kE4If5SPKpc/Tc1q4zR5R0I/AAAAAAAAACg/hSfksB6VKGk/s320/CIMG3355.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Tally's Paintings</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Tally's Paintings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-42879766477258241552011-05-03T10:50:00.000-07:002011-05-03T10:50:34.450-07:00DownpourThere is much truth to the saying, "When it rains it pours." This week, it has been pouring. It is only Tuesday, but I already have my eyes set on Friday. The week just needs to end. My mood has been altered by an extreme lack of sleep, thanks to Hunter's operation that occurred over a week ago. I haven't gotten a full night's sleep YET. Earlier this week I received news of my husband's grandmother (whom we named our first born child after) being diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I only hope it does not progress too quickly and that she will still be of a somewhat sound mind when he and his brother both return from their deployments this summer. The icing on the cake, however, occurred this morning in the doctor's office. Maddy had her 9 month check-up. As we sat in the waiting room, a couple sat off to the side of us playing with their own 9 month old baby, when suddenly the husband loudly blurted, "What in the world is on your baby's feet?!" I felt all the eyes in the room turn to me and stare down at Maddy's brace. Look up the word <i>insensitive</i> in the dictionary and you will see his face. Who does that?! I briefly gave an explanation, and then, fortunately, our name was called. His rudeness has stayed with me ever since. The rest of the check-up went well. Maddy is in the 95th percentile for height and 80th for weight, so she continues to be my biggest baby, but she is healthy! She is being referred for physical therapy because she is not yet crawling and is not even close to being able to pull herself up to the standing position, nevermind walk. When she sits, her legs automatically stretch out into an amazing split position because that's how she sits with the brace on. She's a happy baby who has no idea of what challenges she has already overcome and what challenges are yet to come. I hope the physical therapy will quickly get her on the right track. And if I ever see the insensitive man from the waiting room again, I would love to smack him over the head with the brace.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-68676432899443009952011-04-07T20:19:00.000-07:002011-04-07T20:31:39.342-07:00Her Special FeetMy little Maddy is now 8 1/2 months old, and I cannot help but marvel at how big she has gotten in what seems like a short amount of time. Knowing that she is my last baby makes me want to hold onto her a little longer. I don't mind rocking her to sleep every night (as opposed to putting her in her crib awake). I love holding her tight while feeding her a bottle. (I know soon she will be holding the bottle herself). As she sits on the verge of crawling, I am not in a hurry to push her along. I want her to be successful and prove to everyone that her casts and her brace will not cause her to be behind, but at the same time I want to hold on tight to the baby in her and watch her play with her toys as she sits happily in one spot. Maddy is so special to me not only because she is my last baby, but also because of everything she has been through with her beautiful little feet. I did not write the entire following paragraph, but I wish I had. The words hit very close to home...<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-line;">We have finished the castings and are five months into the brace. I am amazed at how well my daughter (and I) have handled this whole ordeal. And I'm glad I didn't know everything that would happen before it did.</span><br />
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 5px; white-space: pre-line; width: 370px; word-wrap: break-word;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">If they had told me before hand how far they would move her foot at each casting... I would never have taken my child to the doctor for such abuse..</div></div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 5px; white-space: pre-line; width: 370px; word-wrap: break-word;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">If they had told me before hand how much she was going to hate having the casts removed and put back on time after time, I would have left the first cast on for life...</div></div><div style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 5px; white-space: pre-line; width: 370px; word-wrap: break-word;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And if they had told me before hand that I would miss her turned in feet.. I would have taken a million more photos of them (the few I have are my favorites).</div></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-line;">Clubfoot can be a long, exhausting road, but the end is near (even though it doesn't seem like it).</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-line;"></span>Although the road has been rough, and she and I have traveled it alone (without her dad), I have to say it has been worth it. My only regret is not taking enough pictures before it all started because I cannot wait to show her later just how far she has come, especially when she is a track star or ballerina.<br />
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</span></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-12529438843903150502011-03-18T17:26:00.000-07:002011-03-18T18:03:46.488-07:00CutI woke up Wednesday morning feeling very anxious and quite hungry. I was surrounded by young children enjoying their breakfasts, and I was not allowed to eat one crumb. Not one drop of coffee or juice. Surgery was only a few hours away. Just after 8:00 that morning, I kissed my kids goodbye, wished the nanny good luck, and my mom and I were on our way to the hospital. Check-in time was 8:30, but I was 8 minutes early. The nurse welcomed me in, led me to my room, issued me a gown, poked my arm with an IV, and I waited. Nervously, hungrily, thirstily, I waited. Several hospital personnel came in and spoke with me, explained the procedure, and informed me on what to expect - after I'm asleep they would insert a catheter; they would put a tube down my throat and I would breathe through a ventilator; they would make 8 incisions in my abdomen and insert a piece of mesh to cover the hernia; the surgery would last 90 minutes. A nurse came in and put something in the IV. I was chatting with my mom for one more minute . . . and then I heard a man's voice telling me it was all over. There was an oxygen mask over my mouth and nose. My stomach was in severe pain. I couldn't breathe. A woman's voice was right next to me, but I couldn't open my eyes. "Laura, you're having a panic attack. You're hyperventilating. Take slow, deep breaths. You are ok." I still couldn't breathe. It felt like hours. The woman asked me to rate my pain from 1-10. In between breaths I said 8. My eyelids were so heavy. Oh, the pain! "I administered a narcotic into the IV," said the woman. "How is your pain now?" I said 7. Then almost immediately, my pain level dropped to a 2. My lungs were working again. I slowly opened my eyes. "Your surgery is done!" said the woman, who happened to be a nurse. "I'm going to leave the oxygen mask on you until you fully catch your breath. You gave us quite a scare there." I breathed a deep sigh of relief and observed two men in the recovery room with me, one on each side of me. We were separated by curtains, and I could only see their feet. I wonder what they thought of my breathing show. Exhaustion set in. After a few minutes, the nurse wheeled my bed out of there and back into the room where it all began. I was still a bit whoosy as nurses came in and out. My mom was there and then she wasn't. The surgeon came in and spoke to me. He said it went well, but I couldn't remember anything else he said. A nurse removed the IV from my arm, then she handed me my clothes and told me I could get dressed. I told her I was going to throw up. She handed me a blue plastic bag and an alcohol swab. I waved the swab in front of my nose, and after a minute the nausea went away. I dressed myself in the bed with as little movement as possible. The nurse helped me out of bed and into a wheelchair. She told my mom where to meet us, and my mom disappeared. Everything was happening so fast. The nurse wheeled me down the hall quickly. Too quickly. We passed a man in another wheelchair, and I wondered if his feet were one of the ones I saw in the recovery room. A minute later we were outside waiting for my blue van to pull up. Two nurses and my mom helped me into the van as I cringed with every move. The ride home was uncomfortable. We pulled into the driveway, and my mom helped me out of the van and into the house. I was tired, and I was in pain. I sat in the recliner, and I stayed there for hours. The kids were excited to see me but confused as to why they couldn't get too close. Maddy cried when she wanted me and cried harder when she couldn't have me. Tally witnessed me throwing up in my trusty blue plastic bag a few times, and she looked terrified. I didn't want her to see that. I kept nothing down for the rest of the day, and I ate very little the next day. But here I sit two days later, still uncomfortable, especially first thing in the morning, but with the help of pain pills it is bearable. I am able to walk farther today. I walked all the way across the downstairs without giving out. Every few steps, I stop and wince with pain, but the more I move, the better I will get. Never do I ever want to go through this again. I don't know which is harder . . . the recovery or the effect my "absence" has on my kids.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-26751849240279191442011-03-05T19:44:00.000-08:002011-03-05T20:06:52.934-08:00Bunny Slopes are Easy?!Two years ago this month I was still living in Germany, although our time there was running short. It was the tail end of ski season, and although I previously spent four years in the mountains of NC and now almost 5 years in snowy Germany, I had never in my life been skiing, nevermind snowboarding. Suddenly, the opportunity presented itself to go snowboarding in the Black Forest with two friends, Allyson and Jacki, and leave all our kids at home with the husbands. Sounds dangerous, but it was so appealing! I had to jump on it. The husbands had all gone on this amazing trip a few weeks earlier, and they assured us it was only 3 hours away. We rented our snowboards, found some snowsuits, packed up my stylin' minivan, left our 5 kids with our 3 husbands, and hit the road. Black Forest or bust! I plugged the address into my GPS and cruised on down the autobahn. We were so excited to be kid-free and actually doing something fun and exciting. Allyson was the only one of us who had much experience with snowboarding. She was our designated instructor for the day. We were an hour or two into the trip when we suddenly realized we were getting dangerously close to the French border. <i>Why are we headed towards France?</i> we thought. <i>Isn't the Black Forest in Germany? </i>What we had not expected was that the GPS was taking us just barely across the French border and then back up into Germany. That would be fine and dandy . . . except Allyson and Jacki did not have their passports. I had mine only because I had left it in a hidden compartment in the van. Before we knew it, we were at the border. Allyson, being Canadian, was fluent in French. Mine was a little rusty. Plus, my mind went blank when I was face to face with the border patrol agent and realized we might have a problem. Allyson spoke up when I rolled down my window and said nothing but "Bonjour!" and showed him my passport. She exchanged a few friendly words with the man and then told me to go park. I pulled the van into a parking space next to the border patrol office building. Allyson and Jacki went into the building while I sat in the van and waited. And waited. <i>What is going on in there? </i>I wondered. <i>Should I be worried? Should I go check on them? I could totally leave them right now and freak them out. But I won't. What are they DOING?? </i>Finally, I see them come out of the building and walk towards the van. They both had papers in their hands. They climbed into the van as I started the ignition, ready to continue our trip to the Black Forest via France. "We have to turn around," Allyson said. "We have officially been denied entry into France!" She and Jacki started laughing. I sat in disbelief. They showed me their papers which clearly stated that they were not allowed to enter the country. We all laughed about it together as I turned the van around and thoroughly confused the GPS. The GPS recalculated the route but kept trying to direct us to various French border patrol stations. Finally, after several tries, I ignored the GPS and back-tracked to the autobahn. Long story short, we found our way to the Black Forest, but our three hour trip ended up being five. Allyson was an awesome instructor, but I was a horrible snowboarder. She and Jacki put me to shame. Over the two hours that we were on the slopes (the BUNNY slope), I successfully completed about 84 nose plants, 65 summersalts, 98 self body slams, and 13 butt slides. After one especially brutal tumble that harshly knocked the wind out of me, I sat in the snow for a minute to catch my breath. As I sat on the verge of defeat, a 12 year old German boy came flying down the mountain behind me. He skillfully snowboarded dangerously close to me, purposefully spraying me with cold, wet snow. <i>The nerve! </i>I thought. <i>No adolescent show-off is gonna beat ME at this game! </i>With my feet still strapped into my board, I ungracefully flipped over onto my stomach, hopped onto my hands and knees, dug the edge of the board into the snow, and carefully balanced myself into an upright position. I slid down the slope, first slowly and then quickly gaining speed. I was excited and proud. <i>Look at me! </i>I thought. I was doing it. I had gone <i>at least</i> 50 feet. And then it happened again. I crashed and burned. And it was brutal. I waved my white flag, unstrapped my boots from the board, and walked the rest of the way down the mountain with the board in my arms. <i>The 12 year old can have this mountain. I am done. </i>Allyson, Jacki, and I made our way back to the van, ready to start our trip home, hoping it would only take three hours. I changed a setting on the GPS that prevented us from even attempting to cross the French border, and soon enough we were cruising down the autobahn. Maybe an hour or two into our return trip, not far from the city of Strasbourg, France (but still in German territory), we heard helicopters and sirens. A few French and German police motorcycles sped by on the other side of the autobahn in the opposite direction. Then a few more. They were soon followed by police cars and more motorcycles. <i>What is going on?! </i>We passed an exit for a small local airport. More police sped by. And more. Then there was a whole group of police cars, all with their lights flashing, and in the middle of that group were three plain cars with the windows blackened. They were followed by yet <i>more </i>police, and then it was over. <i>Must have been someone important.</i> Then it occurred to us that Barack Obama was giving a speech in Strasbourg, France that day. His speech had just ended. <i>Could it be? Did we just witness the presidential motorcade on the way to the airport? No wonder security into France was so tight!. </i>I guess we'll never know. But I am fully convinced that is exactly what we saw. It was the perfect conclusion to a very adventurous day . . . besides finding our children happy, safe, and healthy in the care of our husbands of course! And it only took us three hours to get back.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><img height="290" src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b9d929b3127ccec7c4aa1d8ab700000040O00QbuWjRuzYsge3nwI/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D550/ry%3D400/" width="400" /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-78451130164528701282011-02-28T07:47:00.000-08:002011-02-28T07:47:08.981-08:00The Belly Part IIIn a previous blog I wrote about how baby #3 tore up my stomach pretty bad. She was so big (my only 8 pounder) that my stomach muscles completely tore apart, which resulted in an abdominal hernia after her birth (or maybe before??). In that previous blog, I also expressed the unknown about how in the world I was going to allow my husband to have a fun two weeks at home in the middle of his year-long deployment but still manage to have a stress-free surgery at some point, either before or after his visit. Well, plans changed, and I finally decided to go ahead and have the surgery while he was home. That way we could enjoy ourselves as a family for the first half of his stay, and then the second half would be dedicated to my surgery and (painful, so I've been told) recovery. My mom bought plane tickets to come help with the kids, I bought plane tickets for a nanny to come and stay with us after my husband and mother are gone (I'll go into detail about her in a moment), and all arrangements were set and ready to go. Well, the universe apparently disagreed with me, and the week before my husband's arrival, I was plagued with a persistent fever, nasal congestion, chest congestion, and fierce cough. Long story short, four days before the date of surgery, I was completely shot down by the nurse at anesthesia and was not cleared for surgery (which was planned for Valentine's Day). I was very disappointed and once again began to question how I was going to pull this off without my husband. It seemed hopeless. But the glass is half full. After a couple days of sulking, I realized that at least now I can enjoy my husband and our family time for the remainder of his visit. And so I did. Turns out everything was not in my control afterall, and it was all decided for me. I remembered being told quite often by a good friend in Germany that things happen for a reason, and that suddenly became so clear.<br />
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Johnathan has now been gone (again) for 7 days. He is back in Afghanistan, and the kids and I are back into our routine. My surgery has been rescheduled for March 16, which is just over two weeks away. My mom was able to change her plane tickets for then, and I changed the nanny's. Speaking of this nanny, it's kind of funny how things work out. Her name is Melissa, and she was an intern in Hunter's daycare class in Germany when I was working. Hunter was just a baby then, but they seemed to develop a special bond. We kept in touch (yay Facebook!), and she has spent the past few years working in Child Development Centers in Germany, Italy, Japan, and England. Now she is back home in California and was looking for work right about the time that I was trying to figure out what to do about my surgery. Suddenly the idea struck me that I could have a live-in nanny (I believe the correct term is "au pair" - sounds so fancy, doesn't it?) to help me with the kids. The surgeon told me my recovery will be very painful at first, and I should expect to be somewhat out of commission for a good 4-6 weeks. I can't even drive for the first 2 weeks. So Melissa became my answer. She graciously accepted the offer to come stay with us, and all my problems were solved. My mom will be here the first week and will leave 4 days after my surgery, but I claim her as my own. The kids will have Melissa, and I will have my mom. Then for the following few weeks I will feel very established just saying that I have an "au pair." I can't help but tilt my head back and flip my hair when I say that.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-22284886053821361912011-01-30T09:20:00.001-08:002011-01-30T09:24:20.051-08:00The Longest Week Ever<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">In one week (or less?) my husband, who has been gone for 6 months, will be home from Afghanistan for two whole weeks. I am ecstatic. The kids have not been told, and I plan on keeping it a surprise until the second they see his smiling face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only hope I can capture their excitement on camera when they see him in the middle of the airport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Little Madison was only two weeks old when she saw him last. I am so anxious to see how she will respond to him. When he left, she had not even begun her casting on her legs, and her little feet were still turned completely inward. He will be amazed at the progress she has made with the casts and now the brace. When he left, Tally was 4 and had not begun Pre-K. Hunter was 2 and had not begun preschool. Now Tally is 5 and is over halfway through Pre-K and Hunter is 3 and happily goes to preschool twice a week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything is different in our house, and he will resemble a stranger in his own home. I cannot wait. Inevitably, as with every soldier who deploys for such a long period of time (and we’re only halfway through!), he will most likely have already changed some. Just little quirks that you notice over time have developed or disappeared. Habits change. New habits begin. Attitudes and opinions change. And suddenly becoming a “single” mother of three has most definitely changed me. My responsibilities have grown. Some of my own habits have changed. I have become much more laid back in some areas and perhaps more uptight in others. My changes will become much more evident to him the longer he is here. I can only hope that whatever changes have taken place in our individual lives will not cause problems between us but will rather bring us closer together. Being apart for so long brings back the butterflies that were present when our relationship began (over 12 years ago!). It takes time to become familiar with one another again. Will he still drink Rock Star energy drinks excessively? Should I even bother to buy some? Will I be allowed to brush my teeth in the bathroom while he takes a shower at the same time? Will I feel comfortable changing into my pajamas with him in the same room, or should I go somewhere else to do it? I should probably clean up the garage and the back yard before he arrives since those are his “manly” spots, and I have most definitely abused them since I gained control. So many thoughts go through my head in anticipation of his arrival. As exciting as it is that he is finally coming home (despite it only being for 2 weeks) , I know that this will be the l-o-n-g-e-s-t and s-l-o-w-e-s-t week EVER. And I cannot wait.</div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-90406076936326107652011-01-28T06:03:00.000-08:002011-01-28T19:58:11.737-08:00The BellyWhile carrying Baby #3 for 9 months and growing quite exceptionally large, my belly took a serious beating. As my midwife put it at my 6 week post-partum checkup, my "guts fell out." In other words, I have a hernia. My abdominal muscles stretched and pulled apart so much that they pretty much no longer exist. There is a gaping hole in my abdominal wall, and I guess she was correct when she said my "guts fell out." That description does not create a pretty mental picture, but if I told you which organ is actually protruding through my abdominal wall, you would most likely cringe and have an even worse mental picture, so I will spare you the details. Regardless, the hole is BIG, and it has to be fixed. I have been walking around like this for 6 months now after being told to simply "lose more baby weight and we'll talk about it." So I did. I ran with a vengeance for several months until cold weather struck the Tennessee/Kentucky state line, and I am back down to my original pre-baby weight (or possibly below it). My eating habits as a "single" mother of 3 probably had something to do with it too, but I'll blame the running. So earlier this week I re-visited the surgeon with whom I talked to before, and he confirmed that my belly needed to be fixed, especially now that I suffer from random spurts of nausea, mild pain, and overall discomfort. I am not supposed to have any more children following the surgery, however, because pregnancy will undo everything they fix. So while they're in there, they will also perform a tubal ligation, or in layman's terms, they will tie my tubes. I am fine with that. I've always only wanted three kids, and I have reached my goal and am perfectly content with my three beautiful children. The surgeon first said we could do it in February. I would love to, but my beloved deployed husband is coming home for 2 weeks in February, and I refuse to ruin his vacation by forcing him to take care of me while I recover from abdominal surgery. Therefore, I will have the surgery in March. Recovery will not be easy, especially with 3 high-energy kids, but I can do this. Several members of my family have suggested me going home for the surgery, but I cannot imagine being gone for so long or staying in someone else's house for well over a month while I attend pre-op appointments, have the surgery, and then have post-op appointments and recover. Plus, and maybe this is the real subconscious reason, but there's just something comforting about being in my own home (OUR own home) while my husband is deployed. I don't know why, but I just want to be here where I can easily be found if needed. But all that aside, it is hard to believe that March is really not that far away. I will be relieved to have my stomach fixed and have my guts pushed back in. Now if we could only do something about the loose skin...Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-37713464172007546662011-01-24T17:24:00.000-08:002011-01-24T18:24:21.043-08:00Stuck in the MudHave you ever done anything that made you feel completely stupid? Take a minute and think about that. Please. It would make me feel better if you did. At least then I would know I am not alone in the world of people who do dumb things. Let me first defend myself, though, by stating that I am a horrible nighttime driver. Horrible. Blind as a bat. Anyway, tonight I had a meeting at 6:30. I had to drop the kids off at their childcare location at 6. We ventured out, and as we neared the childcare center, I realized I had missed my turn. The words from the email flashed in my head. <i>If you get to the light, you've gone too far.</i> As I approached that light, I became irritated. I had not seen the turn at all. So I went through the light with hopes of finding a turn-around spot soon after. Nope. So I made one. I quickly turned left and tried to do a wide U-turn in an area where hay had been placed over the ground. Little did I know that hay was covering pure mud. Thick, mushy, dirty M-U-D mud. I threw the van in reverse and did not move an inch. Put it in drive and did not move an inch. I continued this pattern until I had my front right tire completely covered in mud all the way up to the rim. I was not going anywhere. The voices coming from the back of the van tried to be helpful but eventually earned a negative response. <i>Mom, why aren't we going? Mom, this is not the daycare. Mom, are we lost? Hey, Mom, where are we? Mom, can we go now? Can I get out? </i>And then the baby starts crying. Oh yes. It's feeding time. I thought I was going to be able to make it to the meeting before feeding time struck. Not gonna happen. Not today. Finally, I realized I could not fight this battle alone, so I got out of the van in my favorite black mary janes which immediately slid and sank into the mud. I flagged down the next passing vehicle. It was a very nice, older man in a pickup truck. He attempted to push the van out while I floored it in reverse. It did not budge. A soldier wearing running shoes, pajama pants, and a hoodie pulled over and helped. The van did not budge. They tried sliding rocks and eventually a rubber floor mat under my front tires, but nothing worked. A third man stopped and joined the party. Then a fourth. He spoke of chains and the possibility of pulling me out with his truck. But alas, after 40 minutes, the van flew out of the mud trap with full speed, and fishtailed onto the road. All I wanted to do was run and hug each and every one of them, but I knew I would just fall in the mud. I thanked them all graciously, and we parted ways. Forget the meeting. I went straight home thinking about nothing but the fact that all four of those men probably needed new shoes after that.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7754429889972070933.post-32145852970725739452011-01-19T19:56:00.000-08:002011-01-19T19:56:46.135-08:00Birth Story IISunday will be January 23, my "baby" boy's 3rd birthday. On his sister's 5th birthday, I wrote a birth story blog, so I owe it to him to write his story. Just like before, we were living in Germany. I was teaching kindergarten. By the time I was 38 weeks pregnant, I had been preparing for maternity leave for weeks. Although you do not get paid for maternity leave, teaching is not a profession that you can just take leave and not prepare ahead of time. I had been very busy making lesson plans, making copies of worksheets and other activities, and preparing all sorts of materials for my substitute. Luckily, I was great friends with my substitute, and she was an actual teacher, so I wasn't too worried. But we were halfway through the school year, and I had been working so hard with all 25 of my kindergarteners, so they all held a special place in my heart, and I knew them well. I was actually sad to know that I would be leaving them for 8 weeks. On Tuesday, January 22, 2008 I drove the 20 minutes to my doctor's office in Birkenfeld, Germany for my 38 week checkup. While administering the ultrasound, the doctor noticed that the baby had not grown since my last appointment a week ago. He looked at me with his gray handlebar mustache and said with his thick German accent, "You want to have the baby?" "Now?!" I said. "Tomorrow," he responded. "You come in at 7, we induce you, and later that night you have the baby." I was thrilled. I was 2 weeks away from my due date, but I felt HUGE and uncomfortable, and I was very ready. As soon as I stepped outside, I called Johnathan and told him the news. Then I called my friend and maternity leave substitute, Kelly, and informed her that I was going on leave early. I spent that whole night packing my bag, packing the baby's bag, snuggling with Tally and trying to explain what has happening (not very easy with a 2 year old), and calling my family in the States. I barely slept that night. The anticipation was killing me. Bright and early the next morning, January 23, 2008, we dropped Tally off at daycare at 6:30 and made our way to the hospital. Kelly had already agreed to pick Tally up from daycare that afternoon, so we did not have to worry about when to pick her up. We arrived at the hospital by 7, and I was induced at 8:30. The doctor assured me that I would not feel anything for 4-6 hours, and then the baby still might not come until late that night or the next morning. He was wrong. The labor was fast and furious. It was intense, and I felt every bit of it. At 11:30am I began to push. I pushed a total of 3 times. Right before push #2 began, I heard a phone ring. I watched as my husband pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and say, "Martin here." That was how he always answered his phone. <i>Is he seriously taking a call right now? Is he really talking on the phone as I deliver our baby? Seriously? </i>It was Rich. Leon Richardson. Johnathan's right hand man. His first sergeant. His timing was impeccable. The call was quick. Right before it ended, Rich got a good earful of push #2. I'm sure it sounded like he was right in the room with us. I did not hold back. Just as push #2 ended, push #3 began, and Robert "Hunter" Martin was born at 11:47am. He was 7lbs 7 oz and perfect from head to toe.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><img height="290" src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b9d929b3127ccec7c5105d2bd600000040O00QbuWjRuzYsge3nwI/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D550/ry%3D400/" width="400" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Hunter, Day 1</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b9d929b3127ccec7c52448aae900000040O00QbuWjRuzYsge3nwI/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D550/ry%3D400/" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When Tally met Hunter</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="232" src="http://im1.shutterfly.com/media/47b9d611b3127ccec7a9c94670d000000040O00QbuWjRuzYsge3nwI/cC/f%3D0/ps%3D50/r%3D0/rx%3D550/ry%3D400/" width="320" /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09103690292050387648noreply@blogger.com1