Evan's First Night Without Daddy

Last night, as a van pulled away with my husband in it, I was more concerned with how I was going to handle it than I was my son's reaction. Evan is a very resilient little boy, adn most of the time, if one does not make a fuss over the issue, he may not even notice something is amiss. Yesterday was no exception for my baby boy. I allowed him to play outside until 2100, as those lovely summer nights equate to no nightfall until well after bedtime. He waved goodbye to Daddy and continued to play. No problem. But then bedtime hit. Teeth were brushed, jammies were donned, and the boy was tucked in. But then I heard the little footsteps padding down the stairs. Big, fat tears rolling down his little angel face. "Mommy, my Daddy's not here! You have to read me two stories since he isn't here!" His tiny fists held out two story books, and so we read. The tears continued. "Mommy, I can't give Daddy a hug and kiss goodnight!" I offered him a picture frame with a small snapshot of John in it, but this simply would not do. So I zoomed in on a picture of John's face I had saved on the computer, to where it appeared almost life-sized. Evan kissed his Daddy on the screen, but insisted he take the smaller framed picture to bed with him. But then it was "Mommy, I want to sleep in something that reminds me of Daddy." I dug through a basket of clean laundry to offer up a tee for my baby to sleep in, but no. It had to smell like Daddy. So hand-in-hand, Evan and I traipsed up the stairs to locate John's cologne so Evan could smell Daddy while he drifted off to sleep. Before I knew it, all was silent, and I was alone with my thoughts. I missed him.

101

This is the 101st post here on my little blog. Wow! Really? I closed my eyes, typing blindly and made it the 100-post mark. Not such a big deal, right? Well, not so fast. I'm a bit flaky. Pretty persistent in all other aspects of my life. But I get these little short-lived urges to keep journals or memoirs, and I will go to a store somewhere and find these beautiful little journals, and start writing, only to drop it a short while later. When I die, and someone is forced to go through my effects, they will find a plethora of these with short blurbs about my life and my thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, if that individual strings them altogether, he or she will come up with some random sequence. So...Here I am. I've managed to produce 100 posts, which makes me want to give myself a little pat on the back. I've managed to stick with blogging significantly better than I have with physical writing. Which serves as a nice segue into my next issue. How does one produce these blogs that boast hundreds of thousands of visits each week? I'm sure the skill of the blogger has something to do with it. I'm no Hemingway. And this is more for myself anyhow. And I must admit to being technologically impaired. I cannot seem to get my favorites to work on Technorati and blogrolling is lost to me. If I stumble upon a link I like, I do it the old-fashioned way of cutting and pasting the URL in my little list on here. So if any bloggers have stumbled upon my little patch of ground in Cyberland and have any tips, let me know.

0300?

I was awakened by two different things this morning, both of which are extremely aggravating. The first was this awful dream I had about John and the military. He had reenlisted, gone through the Warrior Transition Course, as planned, and was almost finished with AIT when he called me and said he had gotten orders to ship to Afghanistan. So I was going to have to go without seeing him for two whole years. But then I hear this shrill screaming outside our apartment. It was 0230 on a school night! I was worried it would wake Evan. It didn't seem to be a "help me" sort of scream, but rather a we-are-morons variety of scream. I waited for it to stop, and when it did not, I went outside to check. This may have been a mistake, seeing as I am blind as a bat when it is not dark or in the middle of the night when I am half asleep. But then I stumble my groggy arse out without glasses. I think I cussed out someone I did not know. I still have no idea who it was. I hope it was not a neighbor I am friendly with. I guess I won't be anymore if it was. So now I am sitting here, fully awake. I have been since 0300. It is now 0542, and I have already brewed coffee, had a cup and getting ready to fill 'er up a second time. I have managed to eat breakfast ( mmmmmm, Cheerios) and get my morning supply of nicotine. Lets' start the day!

Wisdom in A Kid's Flick

"Your life is an occasion. Live up to it!" This is from Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. My son has made us watch it over and over, and I must admit, it is my favorite children's movie. I loved this quote.

Hmmmmmmm.

I am about to reach a breaking point in my life. We all have these, and we find them out eventually. What is our limit? Do any of us truly know? Or can we just pile it on until we feel our spines snap? This leads me to think. I have been in some stressful situations in my life, and I keep thinking I am going to reach the point mentioned above. Funny thing is, I never have. It makes me wonder if that point really and truly exists in us all. I mean, maybe there is no breaking involved. Maybe we just bend. Which would completely explain the cheesy and cliche "I bend, but I do not break." Is that me? Gads, I hope not. If there is anything I cannot stand, it is to be cliche.

How Good Is This?

John and I were arguing earlier about his lack of productivity. I have been doing laundry all day while he lays on the sofa. Well I was getting ready to get up and cook dinner when he said "No, you worked on the house all day! I'll cook dinner!" So now, instead of cooking, I am sitting here updating my blog. Sweet.

We're back home after a trip to Kentucky. We took John's car, and I had not realized how accustomed I had become to my own car until I took the 4 hour ride in his. So uncomfortable! Thank goodness Evan slept most of the way, each way, or the trip would have been even more intolerable. I interviewed for a position while down there, and it seems favorable. It would have a very nice schedule associated with it (Read: No more 12-hour weekend nights). I'm keeping my fingers crossed. The plan is, if offered the position, to relocate so we could be closer to John's family. That way, should he get the MOS he wants in the Army and has 54 weeks of AIT, I could stay and work, all while having relatives close to help with Evan. Who knows, though? I am most likely giving this all too much thought.

Yada Yada Yada

Okay, so why the cupcakes? Because I am hungry, slightly intoxicated, and have food on the brain. I am also very tired, as it is 2 AM and I am sitting here on the computer for the first time in about a week. So.... I felt like I should blog something, even when I have nothing to say. It would seem that my son and husband, through their downloading without abandon, managed to destroy a laptop. I went to bed last Thursday, and woke up the next morning to a fried hard drive. Kaput! But thanks to the help of some good friends, I am back on line.

Pensive

The other day, someone in an online community to which I belong asked this question: What makes your relationship so great? I made a reply immediatel, of course. The same superficial answer everyone gives: We love each other. Ever since the question was asked, however, I have been contemplatin what my answer should have been. It is not easy to sum up a relationship that has consumed the better part of a decade of one's life. We are not the same people who took the plunge all those years ago. Many people seeking divorces will claim that their spouse has "changed" over the years. Well...Yes, I should hope he or she has changed in some capacity. The events of our lives leave a mark on us whether we with for them to or not. Lessons are learned. Wounds heal and scars form in their place. Some of the things that have happened in the time we have been together have left a sort of stamp on us. Some is for the better and some is not. Regardless, after all of these changes have taken place it is hard to wrap up into a neat, concise statement what it is that makes John and I so special together. I can say that to the average onlooker, our relationship would seem troubled. Pardon the cliche, but we fight like cats and dogs. This man has within him the ability to upset me more than anyone else ever has been able. He simply gets under my skin, knowing exactly which buttons to press. This is only the case because, at times, I believe he knows me better than I know myself. He sees all there is of me. I don't see the arguments as a weakness like most would. In spite of them, we are fiercely loyal to one another. And we love each other madly, almost to the point that sanity is thrown right out the window. I cannot speak for John, but I can say that he has a large piece of me that will always be his. Whatever happens to us, wherever we go, he will have this. But back to the original topic: Why are we so special? I can certainly tell you it has nothing to do with sunshine and roses. Someone looking to marriage as a source of all things romantic will either be perpetually disappointed or setting themselves up for failure. There is a small amount of romance, but most of a lifetime together is wrapped up in the triviality of day-to-day life. The secret is to find those seemingly trivial bits that connect you as a couple. For John and I, there are many. Almost eight years has been composed of the little moments that have bonded us tighter as more and more time passes. If this were a movie, this would be the part where a montage plays to moving music. But this ain't no movie. This is indeed my life. So here you have it: The kaleidoscope of what makes us so special.... Scrambled egg pie and the infamous trip to the grocery store. I lo-uhhhhhhhh! Backrubs. "Marry me and put this on your finger". Cake up the nose. Two pink lines instead of one. Suviving preterm labor and hospitalizations. Hearing that first cry together. His first step/ first word/ first everything. Belting out "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy". I love you more. Wrestling matches. Junky cars and crappy apartments. The speed at which he can load a truck alone. Those eyes. That smile. That life. Crying on the baby's first day of school. Hearing "That's my WIFE" when my name was called at graduation. His hand on the small of my back when we dance in the kitchen to no music. The way our hands fit together. The solidity of him when I need a rock. The softness of him when I need to cuddle. The way his eyes have started to crinkle in the corners when he smiles and gray hairs have turned up on my head. Dreaming together. The softness of his breath when he sleeps. Being able to draw a map of the freckles on his shoulders. Giggling over bad movies and funny faces. Making fun of ourselves and each other. Laughter. Reading bedtime stories together. The sense of forever.

Who? Me???

OKay, last night, it was a little later than I normally allow Evan to stay up. But he seemed to be having trouble winding down for bed, and since it was not a school night... I decided we were going to play for a while. Well here is the thing. Evan has been collecting those die-cast Cars movie cars. He almost has all of them, except that they came out with more. Let me just say that his collection was not easy to build. Most stores carry the main characters. So anytime we were away from home for whatever reason, I would look at stoes to see if they had different ones. So we have built that collection a car at a time. There are now about 30 characters. And I take it personally when they come up missing. So while in his room, we notice some are gone. I went into his playroom to look... Oh. My. God. I could not even open the door. His playroom is just that: HIS PLAYROOM. It is stuffed to the maximum capacity with any toy a little boy could possibly want. About once a week, we go in there and reorganize, dust and vacuum. The rest of the week, it remains Evan's little area where he can be sloppy and play without betting barked at by adults. That is the point of the room. I was just in there 2 days before. It was spotless. So I pull Evan out of his bedroom and force him to help me clean the room so toys don't get broken by being stepped upon. And the entire time, he is blaming the mess on his little fiend that comes over to play. As in SHE did it all. It would have been possible if I would not have stopped anf thought about his remarks. I cleaned it Friday. Well, John and I did. But he was grounded Friday afternoon because his father was displeased with the way he was treating the belongings that cost so much money. Plus he had gotten mouthy with his father whle outside playing. So there have been no children in the house since the room was cleaned. So when did my baby learn to lie and blame his actions on others? I don't like it one bit!

Blah Blah Blah

I have had a very long day. Most of it was handling random business...running errands. I am exhausted and just gorged myself on pizza. The kitchen is a mess because there are little piles of sorted laundry scattered around like islands in a sea of tile. And there is this awful odor because I go the bright idea that I would attempt to rescue the compromised coffeemaker before buying a new one. Someone told me to try to run vinegar through it to clean it out. Well, I only had cider vinegar because some random recipe for a marinade called for it. So I tried the cider vinegar, and now my house has the pungent odor of burnt cider vinegar. I sprayed air freshener and have been doing laundry so the house smells like flowers and my detergent, but all that is doing is creating the stench of pickled flowers. What do pickled flowers smell like? I have no clue, but I imagine it to smell like the entire ground floor of my house. Blech!

I have opened a new insurance policy and renewed our tags for the vehicles, which is always fun. And I attempted to get a laundry list of items needed for the house in about 5.2 seconds because my husband was parked in a fire lane. That was fun.

The plan now is to curl up on my huge comfy sofa and read, and I can bet I get through about 2 or 3 pages before my eyes start to close involuntarily.

Nothing to Say

I have absolutely nothing to blog about this morning. Except OHMYGODTHECOFFEEMAKERDIED! The last one I had, my child ruined by filling the water chamber with dark cocoa baking powder. He did this in an effort to make hot chocolate at 3 AM while we were sleeping. So hubby, son and I loaded in the car for an emergency trip to the local department store to buy a new one. (I won't mention said department store's name because I hate them with a passion, but they are oh-so-handy in a pinch.) So this is my second coffeemaker this year.

So what is wrong with it? I have no idea. You fill it to the 12-cup mark, put in the go-juice grounds and let it brew. It has an automatic timer that turns off after 2 hours, but you are lucky to get a teaspoon of coffee in that time frame. And it is making these horrible noises. Big gurgles and splashes and hissing like it is posessed by a thousand demons. I. Need. A. New. One.

So here I am on a Sunday morning, looking like a stark-raving-mad lunatic in pajamas. My hair is crazy, and my eyes are half open. And I have no go juice. I could decide I wanted to be handy by taking the back off of the thing and trying to figure out what is wrong. But that requires energy, and I am afraid I will find a Hot Wheel in there or something.

I was up most of the night crying last night. I wonder if there is some You Tube support group I could join? A 12-step program to kick the addiction of watching crap I should not be watching? I equate the You Tube fixation with driving past an accident. You almost HAVE to look. So I watch the stuff and cry, and sob, and sniffle. Then I can't sleep because there are a million thoughts going through my head. None of them positive, I might add. And I have come up with a grievance for the military wives who post this stuff: why do you all look like you haven't shed a tear in a decade? Seriously, their makeup is not smudged, not a puffy eye in the place, and they are sending their husbands off to WAR! Everyone is smiling and posing for pictures. WTF?!? So I posed the question on a message board. And I got replies like "They were just holding it in until they got home." or "They are just being strong." Huh? Strong? I am one tough broad. But I am sitting here watching the videos and bawling like a baby. There is no "be strong" or "hold it all in" for me. I am going to embarrass the living crap out of my husband when that day comes. It won't be by choice. There will be no choice to it. It will be a completely involuntary response to Uncle Sam taking my husband away from me for over a year. Sorry, but it cannot be helped. And Evan? Might as well leave Evan home, because I will already be a basket case, but then if you add to the mix my son pleading for his Daddy, it will all be over. We won't even be able to get home after that.

So just being tough? I don't think so. There has to be more to it than that. Maybe Jody is coming over as soon as she gets home, and she is excited. Hell, I don't know. I'm most likely wrong, and I will toughen up by then too, but I doubt it. You never know until you are in that situation, I guess.

Proud of My Kid

My husband and I, along with our neighbors, went to our local community park with the kids the other day. It was just a little outing...no big deal. The kids played on the playground while we adults watched on. We noticed that there seemed to be quite a few special needs children present. No big deal either. We figured they were on an outing. Evan has never been around children with disabilities. And let's face it--children can be cruel whether by intention or just by asking impolite questions with brutal honesty toward someone different from them. Well, I look over and Evan was sitting with this boy who appeared to be not much taller than him. I had noticed the boy walking around aimlessly by himself earlier. I immediately went over to them, afraid my son would be rude and hurt the boy's feelings. I could not have been more wrong about my son. He spent a good portion of his time there playing with the boy, leading him by the hand through the playground, having fun. A friend of mine, upon hearing this story, said he reflected on us as parents, that we have raised Evan well. I was so proud to have a child who will reach out to someone very different from him, to focus on what they have in common instead of the differences.

We are Learning!

Evan brought home a new school library book the other day because he thought his father would approve. It was called "Alpha Bravo Charlie" and it went through the letters of the military alphabet, using examples from each branch of the service as examples. For example, Lima is for "Leathernecks", which got a hearty "Oorah" from my husband. But the moral of the story is that Evan and I now know the military alphabet!

Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliet, Kilo, Lima, Mike, November, Oscar, Papa, Quebec,Romeo, Sierra, Tango, Uniform, Victor, Whiskey, X-Ray, Yankee, Zulu......Hahahahahaha

Our Time?

John and I have started this habit of staying up extremely late. I have friends who would consider 10 PM late. Nooooo...We aren't referring to such a normal hour here. We are talking about times when there are actually some who are waking up and starting their day....4 AM or so.

Neither one of us is sure when this started. He blames me. I am the pepetual night-shifter, even when not at work, and have the awesome power of requiring very little sleep. I'm not sure when this developed either. Perhaps it is conditioned. When I was in school, from high school on, I would do as much as was possible, trying to make every little moment in my schedule count. There was never a fluff class like home economics or sewing. If there was a space in my schedule at all, it was filled with something useful like chemistry or an advanced physics course I didn't have time for before. Then I would swim, work a damned-near full-time job, play in the band, play softball. I was always doing something. By the time I fit all of that in, there was precious little time left for sleep. I did the same thing in college. So now here I am and I actually have trouble sleeping for more thn 4-5 hours unless under the influence of some substance. But anyhow...

So we wait until our kid goes to bed, trying to hold onto sanity everynight. Until the Mommy and Daddy calls have stopped, until there ae no more " Get back in bed, Evan" comments, when we can be in peace to watch that movie we have been wanting to see or talk about something interesting we saw in the news, or play a game of cards. This is our time. We have so little of it each night that it gets very difficult for me to cut it short.

I know this is going to make my nights much more difficult for me when he is not here. The house will be quiet, there will be no distractions, I will be unable to sleep because I am still hard-wired that way, and John will not be here. I'll wonder where he is, if he is safe and warm, and wish he were home with me. And I'll cry. Because it wil be our time, and we won't be together.

What Is That Smell??????

Awwww my son! My baby boy. Look at his picture there on the side. So sweet. So angelic!

WRONG! That child is far from angelic. Tonight, before his bedtime, he goes upstairs to take a shower. I hear nothing eventful to alarm me. No crashes or splashes or other ominous sound.

He comes down the stairs after the shower, and looks all cute with his wet hair and gorgeous smile. Then the smell hits!

"Evan, what did wash with?"

"Just soap Mommy!"

"What soap Evan?"

He runs away, leaving behind him a cloud of noxiousness. It would seem that my angel decided to clean himself with about five different perfumed gels of mine. They smell lovely by themselves, but not mixed all together. In fact, he smells like a French.....working girl. He runs up to hug me and it literally brings tears to my eyes, not because of the touching and tender moment, but because of the fumes that are wafting off of my child. I have not checked yet. I am afraid. I think his shower just cost me about $100.

Because He Still Wants To......

We started this journey so long ago. First, he was thinking about being a Corpsman because he wanted to be in the medical aspect of things. Then it was the Marine Corps because that is what he knows. Then other things in our life forced his reenlistment to take the back burner while we worked on getting things in order. He lost 80 pounds, then gained some of it back, then lost it, then gained a little more back. Then all hell broke loose in our lives, and things changed drastically. Through all of this, he still wants to reenlist. But the focus has now become getting him some sort of education completed so in the event that I cannot work, we will not be completely out of sorts. So how does he get both?

He contacted the Army. After being in this game for a little while, even I was impressed with what they had to say. Back in as an E-4, as in no loss of rank. PFT and body composition standards that will not break the back of a man who has been a civilian for almost a decade. Possibly even back in as an E-5 because he has completed 80 college credits as a civilian. Still no boot camp, but only a 2-week orientation of sorts. Almost guarunteed the MOS of combat medic, with said training allowing him to be a practicing civilian EMT upon discharge. Possible radiography tech training and credentials, which he wanted as a civilian but found the waiting list for nearby programs to be too long. A break for me. I could slacken my work hours a little and focus on getting that pre-med degree finished, at least. Relocation from an area he hates. This could possibly be the best opportunity for my family. BUT.........

I am still scared. Unlike before, when I refused to tell him what I wanted, I have agreed with him verbally. This could theoretically fix all of our problems right now. It could make things better. But is it worth the risk? We are not so naiive to believe that this all comes without a cost. We know for a fact that he will ship off to war. It could be immediately or it could be a year after training. Unlike the Marine Corps, the Army deploys for twelve to fifteen months, at the least. That is a very long time for my husband and Evan's father to be gone. And what if something happens to him? Of course, everyone that leaves for a combat zone believes they will be like the other guys they know who came back safely. But they would be foolish to believe that they could not be, instead, the one on their hometown news broadcast in the flag-draped casket. Or the veteran they show learning to walk with his new prosthetic.

It feels like a gigantic gamble. Like we would be pawning something very dear to us, which we can't live without, not knowing if we will be able to ever get it out of hock. My mother always taught me to not gamble with anything you cannot afford to lose for good. And there could never be enough money in the world to make up for the loss of my John. I would never be whole again. He is a part of me after all of these years, after all.

I am at a loss. I am finding a hard time stopping him from doing something that will get us out of this situation. But I am also having a hard time with the danger of it all. Is this the only way out? And after a year, with him still wanting to reenlist, would any other solution be acceptable to him? Is he just doing this to get us out? Or is he using our current circumstances as a justification for going back in? I'm afraid I will never know the true answer to these questions.

Us, If We Even Tried!

My favorite movie these days is "Fun with Dick and Jane". If you have lived under a rock lately and have not seen this movie, it is about the perfect All-American family who loses everything when his company goes under. Slowly they sell off all of their posessions one by one, and try any last-ditch effort to get money to cover the bills. When they finally get a foreclosure notice in the mail, they resort to desperate measures. I can relate, but like John and I, some people just are not hardened criminals. I wouldn't even have the cajones to try this. And even if I did, and tried to pull it off, I would feel so guilty and turn myself, as well as all of the money, in . Just like she said in the movie, maybe we just aren't Badasses!

Ha! Here ya go John!

Hahaha! This is from the Popeye movie that was out when I was a kid, and this song is sort of an inside joke. The other night, I got it stuck in my head, and was singing it around the house. Keep in mind that I sing a little worse than Shelley Duvall. It was also in Punch-Drunk Love, which had to be the strangest movie I have seen. Anyhow, John was laughing his head off at me singing this song, so I had to post this!

Successful?????

In case you can't tell, because of the recent events, I have been doubting myself. It's really hard not too when a string of misfortune comes your way, and you are a student of logic. One has to ponder whether the events are a result of one's own actions. Surely it can't all just be bad luck. But I found this Emerson piece, and since I am an idiot, and cannot figure a way to format this where it will stay that way when I publish this post to the blog, I am going to put it in the sidebar. I will sum it all up with this statement: yes, I am successful. Read: I am not such a failure after all.