A quiet homecoming...

Much has happened in the past month and a half... of mention: Homecoming, a 2nd Birthday, a Move, Halloween, Cabin Trip, and Thanksgiving...

All totally fine to cram into one post, right? :)

Well, it’s probably some kind of sign that I have totally neglected any sort of blogging for the past month and half. Mike came home on October 9, and our universe declared my blogosphere closed until further notice.  There are so many possible reflections to pin down, to document publicly and indelibly, but for sake of fatigue (this author’s and yours) and faulty memory, I’ll limit to those most salient and lasting.

Homecoming was, and has been, and forever will be, in a word...
miraculous.

So simple, as we planned it.  Quiet. No big party. No camera crews. Not even a big meet and greet at the airport (much to my initial chagrin). Mike came home to us as he left us, by car service.  At one point during the Long Journey Home, there was talk of him connecting through Reagan and taking the Metro home. Despite my blood boiling every time we discussed this (“Are you KIDDING ME??!?!?”), I had even accepted this as not the hardest part to accept from this 8  month Deployment. That a kind of poetic justice would surface as the result of him taking PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION during his last leg home to us. His connection re-routed him through BWI, which is why the car service won out, but yes, he sort of burst through the door, fatigues on his 28-lb lighter framed body, and one the reels of our lives switched tracks from side A to side B.

It is hard and sad when you are face to face confronted with lost time. I’ve never been in or known anyone who’s been in a coma, but I imagine some bits of similarity. The physicality of holding your now 2 year old child who was just a fraction over 1 when you left.  Despite daily photos, conversations, and Skype chats, despite her recognizing you and welcoming you home. She’s bigger now.  You don’t recognize her clothes.  Her hair and hairstyle make her look like a different kid. The multitude of her microscopic developmental milestones are much, too much, to grasp for a while, for moments or even days. Your wife looks pretty much the same, but you haven’t seen her in real time or touched or kissed her in 8 months. She’s familiar and strange at the same time. Luckily your stuff doesn't change.

Oh, but your child. She is a living reminder of all that time, all that time when so little, and very rarely a lot, happened on this other side of the world, this place that you inhabited. She is calendar incarnate, she is growth, she is time. The realization of this washes over you, and it is loss, and you weep.  You are reunited, it is victory, so you weep. It was your service, your sacrifice, so you weep.  It reeks of injustice, to be robbed of something more precious than anything, so you weep.  It is the greatest fortune in the world to get to love this child so deeply, so you weep. There is nothing else to do, so you weep.

These moments may be retold publicly, as I am now, but I have been persuaded that they are better to be experienced privately. The quiet homecoming was the right thing for us.

There was also much joy, park trips, and laughter, too.

And now, we live and carry on, the deployment remembered, but so much else to experience in the present.

The months can be counted, but the moments cannot.

So for weeks, months even, I had been composing a blog post which would consist of nothing more than a poem enumerating some of the moments that both I had to endure and that M had to sacrifice for this deployment. Here are a few that I actually captured and wrote down…

1 broken water heater

1 new job

500 (approximately) new first words

2 daycare room transitions

1 new minivan

3 births, 3 new babies

1 broken lease, which lost me

     10-15 hours of sleep

1 small fortune in babysitting

1 95 mph wind storm, leading to...

     1 4-day power outage

1 2-week trip to California which entailed...

     2 5-hour flights with a toddler, solo

These documented moments were meant  to round out all of the things M had to miss out on, and all of the ways that he was missed.But an all-too-common writing experience befell me.  I would think of more moments that I should include (like, “oh yeah! 5 three-day weekends!), while I was out jogging, or daydreaming at work, or driving aimlessly while G finished her nap in the car, but never wrote down. I was going to call the poem “Countless.”

But here’s the thing… 

For every moment of frustration and isolation, of painful heart sink, there were equal and opposing moments of support, as well as shining moments of self-empowerment.

For example, the broken water heater was accompanied by two good friends having us come over to shower and extra workouts at my office gym since I was going to need to use the shower there any way. The broken lease, while stressful, resulted in our reverting to an original plan of taking over another lease of the townhome rented by our dear friends, one that has been our second home since we moved to DC. The storm and four-day power outage was met with at least five offers of shelter and company. (Sorry for the shameless self-touting to follow but...) I taught a class, landed a new job, and published three papers while M was gone. We have not been alone and I have managed to do okay in this deployment.

And still…

A few weeks ago, something that I had never before experienced happened to me. I literally woke up at about 12:30am, sobbing. I can't recall my dream only that I woke up crying because of, I suppose, stuffed down grief and anger over being deprived of our M for 8 months.  I am so mad at "them" and I don't even know who "they" are. I just want it to be over. It has caused me physical pain to know that he has been living through the trauma I awoke to in the middle of the night, of missing these last 8 months of G's life. I want to rewind the clock so badly for him, so he can go back.  I know he got glimpses and saw moments... but it was such a long deployment. It asked for so much, too much.

I know his work his important. He literally saved people's lives. M's work mattered, and so that matters. I know this, I honor this.

But now? I just want to hang on to him and for him to know, really know, how much I see him, and understand him, and marvel at his strength, his character, his grace through all of this.  His perseverance through all these months has been the most amazing character feat I have ever witnessed.

I suppose this is a back-handed gift from this experience.  But let this be read:
 

     I didn't want this, but I'll accept that we got through it.  

I just want M in our arms again.

I need to put this behind me, but at the same time never forget…
     of how much of a miracle it is to roll over and collide into his back, and listen to him breathe, in
     our shared bed.
     And to have him come home to a house of shared chores, shared child-rearing, shared meals,
     shared laughter, shared tears.

I will continue to remember to honor the moments together, as I have honored our moments apart.

Two. More. Days….

 Love of my life, come home!

 Let's get back to having Daddy in the picture....

Honor the honesty?

I know I have only 6 weeks left of this, but it feels like an eternity.  I am so done being a single parent.  I'm so done with the loneliness, the exhaustion, the vulnerability, the feeling like a failure, the meltdowns endured alone, the feeling of being a tag-a-long to so many of your friends with kids because it's lonely, exhausting, and scary to go out and do a lot of things with kids by yourself. I'm so done.  I'm so done feeling nervous for a 3-day weekend because it's 3 days to figure out activities, of things to do that are enriching, things that are fun and safe for an almost 2-year-old, things that are within a close drive and not too crowded (read: we've done them all). I'm so done with being ripped out of sleep every morning, and never getting to be the one that rolls over and says "your turn."  I'm so done feeling the oppressive quiet of the house when G goes to bed at night. I'm so done watching TV show after TV show after TV show because there's nothing else to do.  I'm so done paying $50-$60 so I can go to Target by myself. I'm so done telling people you're deployed right now, but it's "okay," because it's not. It never was, still isn't. I'm so done not getting laugh with you over something adorable G says. I'm so done having to cook and entertain a toddler at the same time. I'm so done not having someone to run errands, and I'm so done not getting to run errands by myself. I'm so done having to endure another holiday without you. I'm so done feeling resentful, then guilty, then sad over seeing pictures of families going, doing, growing together. I'm so done with war. I'm so done with humans inflicting misery on other humans. I'm so done knowing I should be brave and strong but not feeling it at all. I'm so done.

I'm so done missing you.

Reflections on Independence Day

Mother’s Day. Memorial Day. Father’s Day. Independence Day.


We’ve had a good stretch of holidays in the recent past, holidays which are now so inflected with new personal meaning to me for two reasons: (1)  we have a daughter, and (2) M is deployed.  I started Honor Project thinking that I would write regularly, or at least at milestones, or at least when the honor-spirit moved me...


but I have to admit...


I got very BUSY (with work, life, and mommyhood)


then


l
  a
     z
       y


and then at times, I was feeling  a little too


s    a    d....


Then I was worried about dragging others down with me by posting something too honest, that this is hard stuff, or on the flip side, if I was feeling a bit too inspired and would come across as some sort of arrogant Pollyana.  On more than one occasion I’ve found myself in social exchanges with well-intentioned people where, after announcing my current situation, I felt awkward and not knowing what to say, so I didn’t come across as being too positive or too depressing.


The truth is, these string of holidays, which once represented an escape from work and an excuse to party (albeit around a theme or a tradition), have always been fun, but they have also been sad.  And I think lately the sadness has been more tied to the fact that sometimes it’s still hard, no matter what you tell people to convince them not to worry about you, that you’re making it through the days/weeks/months. And sometimes people stop asking, which they should, because you have gotten pretty good at this alternate version of your life, that you are resilient, and that you are finding new joys. But you never stop missing the part of your family that makes your family a whole lot bigger than the sum of its parts.  You never stop pining for the pre-deployment, and hoping for the post-deployment. You choose to keep slogging on, because it never really was a choice, just a burden handed to you.


But then, just when you’re kinda feeling like you’re the sole parade float left on the street, and everybody already packed up their picnic chairs and coolers and went home, and you’re there to roll on down that empty Main Street, USA, something really cool and thoughtful and touching happens...

Like a bunch of four and five-year olds send you a book they made with letters and drawings thanking your husband for fighting for their freedom....

and upon receiving a note of thanks from your husband, along with a bunch of American flag pencils, they make a bulletin board display at their school displaying the thank you letter.
 

That makes me proud, too.


So, happy 4th of July, family, friends, and nation!  We’re not perfect, we have a lot of problems, but we became a country 236 years ago, and I’m thankful for our independence, bravery, country fairs with deep-fried ice cream, migraine-inducing amusement parks, beer cozies, and big cars. I’m thankful for the honor we show in trying to stand up for what we think is right and just. I’m thankful that even though we make a lot of mistakes, we seem to eventually own up to them and  try to keep fixing them. I’m thankful for the evangelicals and the atheists.  I’m thankful for the donkeys, and the elephants, too.  I’m thankful that all of us crazies can (mostly) inhabit this stretch of land in peace, as neighbors, coworkers, and fellow citizens. I’m thankful that I met my husband in this fantastical land, and that we had our daughter here, too, and I’m thankful that whether it be right coast or left coast, this will always be home.


And I appreciate Independence Day, mostly because of the infinite number of choices we have all been granted, just by being American, and I appreciate and honor those that continue to serve and protect those choices.


And on that note, G wishes you all a happy 4th, too!


{ctrl-v gratuitously cute toddler pic}

the bearable heaviness of deployment

I am a mom. I am a scientist.  I am a postdoctoral fellow, trying to build her career.  I am a transplant, from the West Coast, living in the DC Metro.  

And I am also a military spouse, a Navy Wife. And my other half is deployed right now; like having my left arm on the other side of the world.

What does all that mean?  What’s it like right now, for me?  The sympathy has been truly staggering; I have been touched and honored by the heartfelt words, nods, looks of amazement of how I’m still standing.  I have also started to feel a little like an untapped market for Hallmark.  

What is  the appropriate response to someone who mentions that their partner is deployed, especially from someone who has little to no experience with the military?  Luckily. no one has physically run away from me when I explain my current situation, but I have encountered some side-steps, some awkward moments, the silences in those moments spent looking for the right words. I’ve even been asked if he knew he was going to have to leave when he “signed up” (though only from people who have never met M), not understanding how anyone could ever leave the chubby little sidekick with astonishing blue eyes I tote around.

Ah, the truth is both the heaviest and lightest I’ve ever had to carry!  Some days it is so hard I feel like my chest is collapsing on top of my lungs under the weight and/or my head is going to explode with the frustrations of operating like a single parent.* I miss my best friend.  I miss his silent helping, our teamwork, his runs to Starbucks on Saturday mornings while I fetch our daughter from her crib, the shared decision-making (whether it be “to grill or not to grill,” what kind of wine we might drink, should we watch Colbert or a TED lecture), our intimacy,  the way he fills up the side of his bed, family jog strolls while he pushes the damn thing up hills... The absence is present every day, albeit easier than the weeks leading up to his leaving, and albeit a little easier and easier managing as the busy days march forward.

But there’s a lightness, too, which is hard to put into words (harder during the heavy days). I sometimes  do feel that I’m made out of, well, not iron, but teflon, maybe, that I am tough, that we three our tough, that we are fighters.  That we don’t know real tough, actually, because there are thousands of families that have it way tougher than us. That through it all, I believe in M, and by extension, all that he is and does, and that nothing can beat us. The lightness comes in the daily conversations I have with my best friend G, the most recent being her coaxing me through a teething-related tantrum that almost undid me. The lightness comes with shared moments of laughter, tears, and embraces with my other best friend S.  It also comes on my weekly jogs with an amazingly funny and fun run group at work, particularly with my friend B who has taught me how to be a scientist, mom, wife, and above all else fun chick to be around. The lightness comes in the morning when we have our family Skype, especially the moments before, when the Skype signature ring plays and G yells, “DADDAA! DADDAA!”, and in the moments during when she kisses his face or fills it with stickers.

So, these moments, the heavy and the light, all of these gifts are not the result of the deployment, but they are perhaps highlighted by it. 

Sometimes I wish I had more grace than to tell people; we all have our baggage, right? Deployment is just another suitcase in another hall, I suppose.  But... I’m a sharer (the blogging makes this a non-statement :) ), and so I do just that.  So I tell people how about G kissing the iPad, and I can feel them holding their breath for a minute.  Because it’s a breathhold moment the first time you see a little do that. But it’s okay; we’re okay; we eventually exhale each time, go to bed each night, wake up the next morning, mostly just taking as it comes. Walking the line between willing the calendar forward and being present in the moment. As in yoga, anchoring the body to the ground (accepting the heavy), while letting my head and hard float upward (experiencing the light).

I accept this heaviness, because as I struggle to wrap my arms around this boulder, push my cheek against it to steady myself under its weight, I catch glimpses of the sun on the other side, and I imagine how it will feel, some brisk November morning, to see it lifted off.

“But is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid? The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground....The heaviest of burdens is [also] simultaneously the image of life’s most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?”

-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Wartime Prayer

Dear Lord,

Lest I continue
My complacent way,
Help me to remember that somewhere,
Somehow out there
A man died for me today.
As long as there be war,
I then must
Ask and answer
Am I worth dying for?
-Eleanor Roosevelt “Wartime Prayer”

I want to etch these words on my bones. I truly believe that although Eleanor Roosevelt, while engulfed in the trauma and tragedy of all that was in WWII, was inspired to write these words in that setting, they came out of an insight on being mindful of what a life worth living really takes. I came up with three themes, that may not have been what Mrs. Roosevelt originally intended, but I think she'd approve. They are reminders for me of how I might live my day to day.

Being mindful. I don't think this is the opposite of mind-wander; rather that to be mindful is to observe first, judge later (if at all). To refrain from chastising oneself. It's a sort of meditation applied to daily living.

Being present. Owning the moment; being truthful, ready, just, there. Perceiving the present as it is happening; noticing the small changes that happen every day, in my daughter's expressions, in the changing foliage, in neighbors' faces as they greet me. In the world around me and in me. How I feel when I wake up one morning, the thoughts that come to me on a run, in the shower, or while rocking G to sleep. The good of course, but also the bad, the tough, the stressful. Attempting to savor those moments, even just for a moment, as they are happening.

Finding courage. Oh courage is too often associated with brawn and might, when most courageous acts are invisible acts born out of everyday life by regular people. The courage to approach a stranger to try to make a connection. The courage to stand before a crowd and speak, with something on the line. The courage that children muster up, so many times, for every new challenge that a growing life is faced with. The courage for a parent to leave her child in a new setting. The courage to attempt a social gathering, in a room full of strangers. The courage of a teacher, upon being asked a question, to respond "I don't know the answer." There are other milestones of courage that we tend to mark into our memories, but these everyday ones, the ones we ourselves often fail to store in permanent memories, are the building blocks of character that strengthen us for the times we don't feel prepared for or when we are overwhelmed with the stakes.

Without trying to minimize our current conflicts, I feel that we are always at war; as actual war and its consequences rage on around us, even those of us who are far away in space and time sense and feel it closely. That people come to an end for something, some cause beyond their control is insidious, maddening, tragic to an extreme I have no words for. But that we live our lives in meaningful way; that we try, and fail, but try again to do our part; to help others do theirs... I find solace, and moreover, hope, in that.

the Honor Project

Service. sacrifice. commitment. pride.

Honor.

These are the words that have always come to mind when I've thought about individuals who sign up, step in, pledge to help keep safe, fight for, and take care of us, by joining the Services. I say the Services, not just the Armed Services, because what I am really referring to here is service, armed or not, that goes beyond individual gain. That is really for something much larger than any one person, that stands for something. I believe in service, I think it benefits the server as much as those s/he serves, but I also know that it comes with costs. Physical and emotional costs. And for those who, in having to serve, have to be away from their loved ones for an extended period of time, know that the physical and emotional are not separate. The ache of longing is one felt in the bones, in the chest, right above where the heart beats.

But individuals still serve, still leave their loved ones, to help make a difference in people's lives. To help rebuild storm-ravaged areas. To help set up classrooms and businesses in resource-deprived areas. To help reduce the suffering and pain of injured soldiers.

Making that choice, to serve, takes something, but it is something that I think we all innately have. I often refer to it as integrity, or character, but I think that stems from a place of being able to honor oneself and then the world around. To be true to the light that is within us all. To be able to make the harder choice, rather than succumb to the easier one. I call that honor.

But honor isn't only found in these big acts, big missions. It's most often the smallest of things. The unspoken, the unnecessary act of kindness, the uncredited. The anonymous donation, the door held open, the genuine smile, the hand outstretched. The risk taken, the hard task embarked upon, the shared moment. All that we feel that is genuine, all that feeds our soul. We aren't always conscious of it, but we do visit those places where we know we have done something good, maybe difficult, but right.

So, what this is about...

About 3 weeks ago, my husband, best friend, and partner in this world had to leave my daughter and I, to go far away, around the world, for about 8 months, to help take care of the wounded and sick. I could have said that got sent on a 8 month deployment to Afghanistan, and that would be true, but the way I said it first feels lighter. We are hurting, being apart from each other. But we are also surviving, and more than that, we are also uplifted, and we are also inspired, and we are thriving (okay, most of the time... sometimes we are only hurting, or we are only frustrated, or we are only exhausted!).

I've been blogging regularly for about a year and a half about my life as a mom who also has a job outside the home, but I wanted to start a new blog, during M's deployment, about what I think honor means. And to honor my husband, M, in his service. I hope to use this space to reflect about what and how we honor in our little everyday lives. I am hoping that this becomes a record for our family and provides solace in this time of being apart. I am hoping that our daughter can look back on this time, with the help of this project, and find what was good and what was right about it. I think the joy and the sadness that might accompany this project come from a place of honor, from a place of being true, and if tears of each come, so be it. Thank you for reading, and for sharing this space with us.

We honor you.