Sleepless in Harker Heights

My husband is currently in the middle of a new “phase”- falling asleep on the couch.

Now, it’s not the falling asleep part that’s new.

I’ve known for quite some time now that that’s not just  Dan’s talent- it’s his spiritual gift.

Just the other night, I was telling him a story while we were lying in bed. He responded with an “Uh-huh” and five seconds later- I counted!- was snoring. 

No, falling asleep on the couch or any other strange place is nothing new for him. The new part is that he wants ME to fall asleep on the couch, too.

Over the past 25 years, I’ve developed an optimal sleeping environment for myself. I consider myself solar powered. Once the sun goes down, I’m ready for bed. And, any amount of light that seeps into my room wakes my up. One of my pet peeves, in fact, was when a certain unnamed younger brother- ahem- would leave the hall light on after he went to bed, forcing ME to get up and turn it off.  In addition to blocking out light, my prime sleeping environment blocks out all sound. I recall not a few nights in my childhood when I would wake up from a sound sleep because certain unnamed younger brother and sisters- ahem- would have fallen asleep listening to Radio Disney or The Chronicles of Narnia. I would tiptoe across their creaky bedroom floors and gradually lower the volume, praying that wouldn’t wake up.

Now, I didn’t get my own bedroom until I was 18. As the oldest child in the house, I was given the choice of which bedroom I wanted. Naturally, I picked the one with the most light... and the bird’s nest in the wall.

That was a stupid choice!  

If I wanted to sleep past 5am on any given morning, I was going to have to take drastic measures.

And I did…

I developed a strategy for turning my bed into a cocoon- covers pulled up over my head to block out the light, and a tiny breathing hole crafted off to one side where I could breathe in fresh air. As for the sound of the birds or those darn garbage trucks, that was a more difficult problem. It required sacrifice. On chilly autumn mornings, I desperately turned on the one machine that could overpower the outside noises- my air conditioner. And I threw another layer on the cocoon.

Learning to sleep with another person, I hear, is a difficult task. Especially for someone like me, who has taken a quarter century to perfect my optimal sleeping environment.

Learning to sleep with Dan is another story. He’s not just any old person. He’s special.

First, he bought a projection clock. If you haven’t even seen one of those, it basically projects a digital image of the time onto your ceiling or wall. For days after Dan bought his prized clock, he would lie in bed and lovingly ask, “Honey, isn’t it so cool?!”

Well, Honey didn’t think it was so cool! Honey likes it to be dark in the room when she goes to sleep. And that clock was NOT dark! In fact, one morning after Dan climbed out of bed to get ready for work, I turned the clock so it faced the floor. As I drifted back to sleep, I heard a concerned voice mumbling to himself, “Hm… I must have messed up the clock…. Gotta fix that…” And the spotlight went back up on the ceiling… and I grimaced and growled as I retreated into my trusty cocoon.

The other thing that makes it difficult to sleep with Dan is the noise factor. I once saw a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip where Calvin remarks that his Dad’s snoring sounds like tractor trailers downgrading on the highway.

I think of that cartoon every night.

I honestly do not know Dan’s snoring reaches such decibels. But I’m finally thankful that he insisted on having a king size bed. Because, in those moments I want to be as far away from the rumbling as possible.

As if the snoring weren’t enough, there are the alarm clocks… multiple alarm clocks.

I am very proud of the fact that I wake up promptly and thoroughly the first time my alarm goes off. It doesn’t even have to be loud- I can wake up to my phone alarm on vibrate! And, I don’t need a snooze button. I am able to calculate exactly how much time I need to get ready in the morning, and I prefer to sleep to the last moment possible. Apparently, not everyone is like that… Apparently some people don’t hear their alarm clocks go off… Apparently, some people need multiple alarm clocks… Apparently, some people like to set their FIRST alarm for 45 minutes before they actually want to get up, so they can appreciate, at 5-minute increments, the fact that they don’t really have to get up yet. Apparently, Dan is one of those people.

I don’t consider myself a violent person, but I have had evil thoughts lately towards a certain cell phone, 2 alarms clocks, and a wrist watch, that I’m sure I’ll need to confess pretty soon. Especially since we now have a gun in the house.

So what’s the big deal about falling asleep on the couch?

I have yet to discover what makes it so much fun for Dan… but I know what makes it so NOT fun for Jussley. First of all, Dan is a couch-hog. Fair enough, since he’s at least twice my size. But, for someone who wanted a king size bed so badly, I’m feeling a bit jipped as my rear hangs a good 6 inches off the couch. Then there’s the whole contorting my neck to fit on the pillow but not be squished by Dan’s head issue. And how about when you’re just falling asleep, but then it starts to get cold, and the blanket is just beyond your reach, and you have to get up to get it, and then you’re awake again? Inevitably I wake up somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, and decide that I’ve had enough. I’m going to bed! The real bed!

My husband clotheslines me on my way off the couch. “I’m sorry! I was trying to catch you from falling off the couch!” Oh, the couch you were pushing me off in the first place?! He sits up, looks at me, talks to me, but goes back to sleep ON THE COUCH and in the morning asks me why I didn’t wake him up to come to bed. Go figure! I turn off all the lights and calculate how much higher our energy bill has been since this fun “living room campout” phase. I despair of the dinner that we once again forgot to put in the refrigerator. No leftovers, I guess. With a defeated sigh I peel back the covers and claim the whole bed to myself, not even caring that I didn’t brush my teeth or change into pajamas… again! It’s warm. It’s dark. It’s quiet. And my rear has plenty of room.

Somewhere between real sleep and dawn, an arm reaches across me and I feel a kiss on my forehead.

I smile.

I count to five.

And the semis start downgrading on the highway again.

I roll my eyes, put my pillow over my head, and remind myself that the best soldier needs to be able to fall asleep wherever, whenever, because a few minutes rest may be all he has.

…and suddenly I don’t mind the alarm that I know will go off in two hours… because for two more hours, that soldier is mine.

with 10,000 beside!

“Thank you, God, for napkin rings!”

This time it wasn’t hard. This time it floated up from a giddy heart, carbon bubbles of gratitude launching off the liquid surface and spraying my nose. It was just a napkin holder, but it was pure joy.

I had seen the colorful rings in the store a few weeks earlier while registering for my housewarming shower. Different-sized wooden orbs of hot pink, neon green, yellow and white, clustered into a ring. I imagined placing them on my new white square dishes, a splash of color to invite my guests into the new Texas house. But, I passed them up with a sigh, and pointed my scanner towards more “practical” items.

Tonight, in a moment of spontaneity, I raced back to the store, determined to find some small treasure that would cheer my evening. I spied the colorful rings in a clearance box-  99 cents a pop! I looped 10 of them over my fingers and smiled like a toddler, stifling a giggle as I hoarded my treasure.

Yes, on my way home, I thanked God for those napkin rings. They reminded me that I was a few minutes closer to being with my husband in our first home. I imagined God smiling back at me- winking even- and gently encouraging me that I was going to make it, and He was going to help Me!

Thankfulness. It’s sheer divine magic.

My mother-in-law let me in on that secret a few months ago when she gave me the book One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp. Ann writes like a magician herself- a poetic, freestyle, sometimes Transcendental flowing of an eager hand across friendly paper. The words appear out of thin air. She writes about chickens and overalls and dishes and dirty faces and schoolbooks and quiet moments with God and exhaustion and dirt under fingernails- everything that makes life less than romantic- everything that makes life, life! She writes about soul-withering sorrow and bloody hearts- and she writes about what she discovered on the day she met Life.

“A glowing sun-orb fills an August sky the day this story begins, the day I am born, the day I begin to live.”

Though she refers to her physical life there, she reveals in later pages the secret to living her new “emptier, fuller life.”

The secret is very simple.

“Thankfulness precedes the miracle.”

I read these words a few weeks before I met Dan in Cancun. My heart was bitter, disillusioned, unhappy, and not entirely convinced of Voskamp’s words. Poets have a way of exaggerating circumstances- making the dirt of life seem somehow beautiful in its dirtiness. Well, my life tasted of dirt lately, and it was not beautiful. It tasted gross.

“How do you count on life when the hopes don’t add up?”

Now she was talking my language. For over a year I had been waiting….waiting….waiting for life to start. My hopes had been growing, but like an incorrect math problem, 1 plus 1 plus 1 plus 1 kept equaling zero. Zero husband. Zero new home. Zero phone calls. Zero happiness. Zero. The hopes were not adding up.

“The hopes don’t have to add up. The blessings do.”

 I paused.

“Count blessings and discover Who can be counted on.”

Not what I was expecting.

The poet-magician explained. “Isn’t that what had been happening, quite unexpectedly? This living a lifestyle of intentional gratitude became an unintentional test in the trustworthiness of God- and in counting blessings I stumbled upon the way out of fear.”

Intentional gratitude. Ann had been keeping a list of things that she found each day to be grateful for. Little things- the sunlight gleaming through clean windows. The smell of clean sheets hanging on the clothesline. Count to 1,000. 1,000 gifts.

An unintentional test in the trustworthiness of God. Is that what this struggle in my heart was? Perhaps the zeros I kept coming across were merely reflections of the zero trust I was putting in God. Perhaps my unhappiness was fear- fear that God was not really looking out for my good. Fear that He was trying to trick me. Fear that He would wait until the last minute and take Dan from me. Fear that He would give me all these beautiful dreams and then tell me it was all a joke- a massive test to see if I was holy enough.

I decided that perhaps I needed to put the poet on trial. I would take her words to court and see if the evidence weighed in her favor. I would consider her guilty until proven innocent.

6 o’clock.

My first day back after Cancun, and my baby niece woke me up at 6 o’clock.

Thanksgiving precedes the miracle.

Now was my first court session.

I picked up the tearful bundle and wrapped her under the covers next to me. As I fed her her bottle, I took a deep breath and prayed, “Thank you God for this precious life warm and needy next to me. My niece.”

A faint smile as I stroked her cheek.

Thanksgiving precedes the miracle.

I glanced through the blinds at a new day.

Blue sky.

“Thank you, God, for blue sky…. I love summer.”

A smile. A real one. A whole one.

A giggle!

That was it! I laughed at myself for being so vulnerable! I had let my guard down, and the poet had been acquitted and left the bench before I noticed her absence. She was right! Thanksgiving DID precede the miracle. My aching heart could breathe. I was going to make it!

“Isn’t it here? The wonder? Why do I spend so much of my living hours struggling to see it? Do we truly stumble so blind that we must be affronted with blinding magnificence for our blurry soul-sight to recognize grandeur? The very same surging magnificence that cascades over our every day here. Who has time or eyes to notice? All my eyes can seem to fixate on are the splatters of disappointment across here and me.”

Thanksgiving in little things… thanksgiving in all things! The little things become the blinding magnificence! And in the blinding magnificence, true vision is restored.

Just the other night, I lay in bed “fixating on the splatters of disappointment” when I heard the whisper.

Thanksgiving precedes the miracle.

Dutifully, I began.

“Thank you, God, for the hum of the air conditioner that quiets my restless mind.”

“Thank you, God, for the soft covers that catch my tears.”

“Thank you God….”

…and a tangible peace flooded my body. A delicious drowsiness overcame my mind and with my last waking thought I noted once again that the miracle had happened.

I don’t know if I’m ready, yet, to say that I’m thankful for this deployment. I’m certainly thankful for things that it’s brought- like a chance to minister to others in similar circumstances, like my husband’s dreams being fulfilled, like an extra year to watch my baby sister grow up, like an opportunity to learn how to show “creative love” to my far-away man. But, am I thankful for this deployment?

Hmmmm…

I read on as Ann quotes Henry Beecher Ward: “Pride slays thanksgiving…A proud man is seldom a grateful man, for he never thinks he gets as much as he deserves.” Ann asks with me, “Dare I ask what I think I deserve? A life of material comfort? A life free of all trials, all hardship, all suffering? A life with no discomfort, no inconveniences? Are there times that a sense of entitlement- expectations- is what inflates self, detonates anger, offends God, extinguishes joy? And what do I really deserve? Thankfully, God never gives what is deserved, but instead, God graciously, passionately offers gifts, our bodies, our time, our very lives. God does not give rights but imparts responsibilities-- response-abilites—inviting us to respond to His love-gifts. And I know and can feel it tight: I’m refusing it. Proudly refusing to accept this moment, dismissing it as no gift at all I refuse God. I reject God. Why is this thanksgiving so hard?”

My foolish pride thinks I don’t deserve these moments of heartache. And in my ungratefulness, my joy is extinguished. I search for the grace- no, the common sense!- to thank God for this deployment. I don’t understand it, but He has given it to me wrapped in shiny paper and a sparkly bow- it is a gift that He has delighted to give me. I shake my head in wonder at this strange God that I serve… and I wonder  why I doubt His wise love still after so long…

So, tonight, I give thanks…

…for napkin rings

…for autumn leaves that fall like confetti and balloons on me, the winner!

…for “What are we going to do today?!”s

…for orange-painted toe nails

…for blogger friends who sympathize

…for soldier man who writes inappropriate comments on my Facebook wall

…for the smell of new books

…for “blessings all mine, with 10,000 beside!”

…and I wait for the miracle!!

Just Winging It....

It was at about 6,000 feet that I frantically asked myself, "What in the world am I doing?!"

Zipped into a bubblegum pink jumpsuit, with oversized goggles suctioned to my face, I looked out the tiny window as we penetrated the thick cloud layer.

I never was a huge fan of heights.

Yet, here I was, straddling a narrow bench, my back harnessed to a stranger's stomach, pretending to smile adventurously as I attempted to suppress the feeling of impending death that was rather quickly working its way from the bowels of my stomach to my esophagus.

And we were quickly nearing our destination of 12,000 feet above solid ground.

My Dan is a great gift-giver.
While we were dating, he sent me a big package of things that go well together- milk and cookies, peanut butter and jelly, salt and pepper. Labeled "open last" was a picture of him and me, obviously the best pair of the bunch. Another package came my way for my birthday- full of all sorts of unique goodies like a foot massager, a princess tiara, a jar full of chocolate kisses, and a pack of little Army men attached to parachutes. Dan puts a lot of care and thought... and humor... into his gifts.

Humorous isn't exactly how I would describe his "pre-deployment" gift to me, though.

On our last Saturday together, as we lazed around the house, Dan nonchalantly suggested we start our day, as he had plans for us.

No, it wasn't a car...
or a puppy...
He was taking me

skydiving

I enjoy surprises.
I am afraid of heights.petrified.

At 12,000 feet, the door to the side of the plane was opened and we slid into place. I looked across the plane at the impish face that smiled excitedly at me. There was only one person in the world for whom I would ever consider jumping out of a plane; and there he was, perched on the edge of the plane, ready to catapult into the cloudy white abyss. I didn't even know til I watched the video footage later that that stinker backflipped out of the plane!

I was alone.
And it was my time to jump.

I swung my feet over the edge, trying desperately to do anything but think about the fact that God didn't create me with wings. I jammed my head back against my instructor's shoulder and started to rock.

3
2
1

and I rolled into a freefall


Being married to the military is like skydiving.

In a matter of seconds, everything comfortable about living on the ground-- gently-blowing leaves, laughing children, eating watermelon in the park, watching fireworks and catching lightning bugs, the smell of slightly-burnt popcorn-- is savagely ripped from under you... and you're tossed into the cloudy abyss of the UNKNOWN, armed solely with the comforting knowledge that if your first parachute malfunctions, you have a backup chute that should work more effectively.

I was convinced I would live and die in NJ, unless I married a missionary and moved to the thick jungles of Africa, where I would labor in our tree hut to translate the Bible into native tongues and die young of malaria or dysentary or an attack by rabid baboons....naturally. The idea of giving up my cozy predictable life for the nomadic wanderings of the military wife never once entered my mind... surprisingly. I liked life on the ground. I liked its bustle and activity. I liked looking UP at the clouds and daydreaming about their soft fluffiness. But LIVING in those clouds...well, I didn't actually think that would be so much fun.

Perhaps what really suprised me about skydiving, then, was how much fun it actually turned out to be. How many people get the chance to swim through a cloud?! Or gently float on the breeze, surveying the expansive horizon? I thought the distance from earth would make me sick, but it opened my eyes to a view of the world that I had never seen before. It was beautiful. It was enjoyable. It was adventurous. It actually wasn't so bad...!

As I slowly picked up my legs for landing, a blue seran-wrapped figure ran toward me.

"Are you ok?
 Did you like it?
Wasn't that AWESOME?!
Want to do it again?"

Before we left to head back for dinner, Dan pulled out another gift. This one wasn't quite as expensive or shocking. He had brought along his Airborne pin to give to me. We held our own private pinning ceremony, and he told me how proud he was of me. He really didn't know if I would be up for the skydiving adventure...

Well, he should have known when I agreed to marry him that I'm not exactly a normal or completely sane person...

...and that I'm kind of head-over-heels for him...

Those wings pretty much sum up our foreseeable future.

People have a lot of questions about where the Army will take us-
"When does Dan come home?"
"How long will you be in Texas?"
"Where will you move next?"
"When are you going to have kids?"
(and my personal favorite) "When does he have to go back to Afghanistan?"

To all of these questions, I simply respond, "I don't know..."

You see- Dan and I- we're airborne.
We've been pushed out of a plane and we're not sure when we'll hit the ground or where.
But we have our pins.
So, we don't worry about the altitude. the wind speed. the weather.
We just kind of...

WING IT

There are still days where I ask myself what in the world I'm doing..
like when half of my students call me "Miss Martin" and the other half call me "Mrs. Filcik"
or when I get a text that says, "Rocket attack. Be back in a second"
or when I try to figure out how in the world Mom and I are going to move all that furniture to Texas by ourselves

But then I remember my wings

I have a good 12,000 feet to fall before I hit some kind of ground.
but...
I'm thankful to be strapped to Someone Who knows what He's doing and doesn't need a "backup chute."
I'm thankful for the clouds and the breeze and the opportunity to see new places.
I'm thankful for my bubblegum jumpsuit and the supportive team that will cheer me on from back up in the plane and from back down on the ground.
And I'm thankful for that crazy blue seran-wrapped GIJoe waving excitedly up at me.
I promised to follow him in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, through question marks and "we'll cross that bridge when we get there"s.

So, Dan, to answer your questions-
Yes, I'm ok!
Yes, I liked it!
It WAS awesome!
And I WOULD do it again!

And, somehow, I have a feeling that when our crazy adventure with the Army comes to an end- in 5, 10, 20 years- and we finally hit the ground... I'll be pretty thankful that I followed you into that itty bitty Cessna, strapped on those dorky goggles, held your hand...

and JUMPED!

Broken Wings

If you asked me to sum up in one word my deployment experience so far, it would be 'disappointing.'

For anyone in the Army, there is a constant cycle of expectation and disappointment. Dates are always written in pencil. Addresses are changing constantly. There is no choice. You hope for the best but prepare for the worst. For family of a deployed service member, that cycle is only heightened. Every day. He'll call today at lunch....but he doesn't. We'll get to Skype... but we can't. He'll finally be home on that date. But he isn't.

And every day, it's the same battle: I will be happy today... but I'm not.

Perhaps I am most disappointed because I haven't met my own expectations for myself. I thought that if I just stayed busy enough, I would feel fulfilled. If I just made a list of everything for which I am thankful, I would never be discontent. If I just willed myself to be happy, I wouldn't cry. At the beginning of this deployment, I was my own biggest cheerleader... but I'll admit that now there are days when I look out my window onto a gorgeous summer morning and pull the covers back over my head.

Some days I am my own biggest disappointment.

I was feeling rather guilty and perplexed about this one Sunday morning, when God sent me an angel. A young bride like myself asked me tentatively how I was doing. She didn't want to intrude on the privacy of my feelings or act as though she had all the answers for me. Sensing her genuine heart, I, with equal hesitancy, shared with her the sorrowful heartache hidden behind my practiced smile. I hoped with all my aching heart that she wouldn't take advantage of my vulnerability by offering a quick, cliche response.

Her tender words brought healing to my heart.

She shared with me a card that she had been given during a trial in her life more intense than any I've ever known. On the front of the card was a picture of a little girl in a ballerina tutu and fairy wings. She looked longingly out the window. The card simply said, "Be gentle with yourself... you have a broken wing."

Suddenly, another line I had read elsewhere made sense. Before Dan deployed, I read the journal of another Army wife who had "survived" her husband's deployment. She said that she had to "learn to forgive herself" when she had a bad day. I didn't understand what she meant by that when I first read it. How do you forgive yourself? Isn't that just an excuse for having a bad attitude? Aren't you supposed to deal with the tragedies life sends you with bravery and determination?

When my friend shared with me that card, I understood what that Army wife meant.

I have a broken wing.

I can't fly as fast or far these days as the other butterflies around me. It's hard for me to stop and enjoy the beautiful flowers I live among, because I'm working so hard just to stay aflight. I get tired so easily. My slow pace and constant exhaustion frustrate me. Being happy used to come so easily, and now it's one more thing I have to work hard at.

All because I have a broken wing.

One of my two awesome sisters-in-law sent me a care package recently. I was a little embarrassed that I would need a care package, as if it were some sign of weakness in me. But, on a particularly difficult day, I surrendered my feelings of pride and took out a bottle of the pink glitter nail polish I had been sent. After I donned my princess hat and laid my princess wand next to me, I took a few minutes to paint my nails. It was just a few minutes of quiet that I enjoyed. Just some hideous, chunky, glittery nail polish. Just a ridiculous princess costume. But it was enough time for me to rest my broken wing. In those few moments, I laughed again- at myself- but it was a genuine laugh! For a few minutes, I was able to enjoy the flowers around me and bask in the glory of being a beautiful butterfly.

I look around me this week, and I notice something:

A dear family gave to Jesus this week an amazingly beloved wife, mother, and grandmother. My special friend Michele is saying goodbye to her husband tomorrow as he leaves for his deployment. Another friend's joy is delayed as her husband's return has been pushed back.

Broken wings are everywhere.

It's easy to miss them when I'm concentrating so hard on my own pain. But, I am not alone. 

My dear butterfly friend, if you have a broken wing, come rest with me for a moment. Are you sad...tired...lonely...frustrated...angry...heartbroken...confused...disappointed? I invite you now to be gentle with yourself.  Borrow my princess tiara. Make a wish with my fairy wand. Take your pick of pink or purple glitter nail polish. If you need a hug, here's one. It's ok to cry. It's alright to be quiet if you'd rather not talk.

Dear butterfly, you are very special. You are working so hard to do your job and keep flying. You have a broken wing, and that's nothing to be embarrassed of. We serve a God who specializes in healing. And that makes us blessed butterflies.

Dear butterfly, you will fly again. Some day soon, you will enjoy the beautiful colors around you with a free and unburderend heart. Just like my friend who shared with me this wonderfully comforting advice. Wings grow back. You will be whole!

But for now, dear butterfly, be gentle with yourself.

Welcome to the Army, Mrs. Filcik!

WARNING: This post may contain traces of bitterness and/or resentment. Please take this Army wife with a large grain of salt... perhaps the whole can.

I sauntered into the Verizon store, ready to take on the world. It was finally time to break the metaphorical umbilical cord in the form of the infamous "Family Plan." No more mooching off of my mom. I am a married woman! And I will pay full price for my own phone line!

As I explained the situation to the representative- namely, that my HUSBAND (I'm married, you see:) is in Afghanistan, but I'd like to start my own phone plan and add him on later- I waited for those magical words. Like the sweet strains of a classical symphony or the heart-warming giggles of small children running through a sprinkler, the words danced across the room. "We have a military discount!"

I stood a little taller as I handed my military ID across the counter. Someone's phone went off, and I'm pretty sure it was a rousing rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. I could feel the reverent salutes of the civilians surrounding me, and I graciously encouraged them to be at ease so I could hear the voice of the patient representative.

"Um.... are YOU in the Army?"
"Well, I mean, technically my husband is.... I'm just a ... a... dependent..."
My voice dropped to a whisper.
Like a sorry 3-day old helium balloon, my self-esteem deflated right before me.
"Oh, well, I'm sorry. The discount is only for those actually IN the Army."

This is such a confusing concept for me.

I was pretty sure that on December 21, 2010, I was sworn into the Army. As I recall, I passed under the gleaming sabers of 8 uniformed officers, and heard them say, "Welcome to the Army, Mrs. Filcik!" It was such a life-changing moment for me. There I was, just an innocent pledge-of-allegiance-reciting civilian, being admitted-welcomed- into one of the most prestigious, tight-knit communities in our nation! Let me tell you, I was proud to wear my camouflage high heels that day!

Looking back on our wedding pictures, my husband was a little surprised and disgruntled to see that his saber bearers were smiling! Smiling is not permitted in the Army. In fact, if you are seen smiling, you could be subject to having your lips cut off. It's a pretty extreme measure, but it fits the gravity of the crime. I secretly thought it was darling! and I made Dan promise not to tell on them. Knowing what I do now, though, I realize why they were smiling, and I don't think it's so darling anymore. The moment they welcomed me into the Army, they demoted me to the status of ....

dependent. (The word is deliberately left in lowercase letters.)

Army wives are called dependents because we cannot do anything without our husbands. It's a little-known fact that when our husbands deploy, we stay in bed. For months. With the curtains drawn. We do not eat anything except icecream and Dove Promise chocolates. We do not shower. We never even dream of shaving. Those pictures you see of us painting the house, moving furniture, juggling 3 kids single-handedly, sending care packages, and beating war protestors with our brooms? Those are staged. We have them taken before our husbands leave and then we periodically post them to make you all think that we're ok. But we're not. Because we're dependents. And we pretty much can't do anything on our own. That's why Verizon wouldn't give me a discount for my phone- because I would probably lose it or something without my husband there to help me find it.

Ok, ok, you all know that's NOT true. (Except for the part about not shaving and losing my phone. It's true. I felt really badly for the last Asian lady who massaged my legs when I got a pedicure. I tipped her extra.) The whole "dependent" thing is actually kind of a joke between us Army wives. My husband read a poem at our reception that poked fun at this idea. I love the words it finally used to describe us- FIERCELY INDEPENDENT! That doesn't mean that we don't acknowledge our need for our husbands. It just means that when we need to get the job done, by George, we do it, and we can do it all by ourselves!

Now, I'm not looking for handouts. I don't walk into every store and ask if there's a discount for underprivileged, lonely Army wives. Sometimes, I do wear my "Army Wife" T-shirt in the hopes that someone will notice that I need an extra pat on the back. But, as my well-meaning family reminds me often, I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this. (Thanks, guys, I feel so much better...) It's not Verizon's fault that they can't recognize a soldier when they see one. I am rather short and under-dressed for an active duty servicewomen. But, I would like to give a shout out to the jolly fellow at GNC for giving me his gold discount on the ridiculously oversized tub of protein that I had to buy for my Hulk of a husband... and I would like to personally thank all the people in the security line at the airport who let me cut in front of them so I could see my husband one more time before he left. And it's with tears in my eyes that I gratefully remember the couple who secretly asked that I be upgraded to First Class so that I could be first off the plane to see my soldier. It's people like that who get it.

My Verizon story does have a good ending. After all my ranting, the fact is that I did get my discount. Turns out that teachers get the same discount as military members. Turns out that Verizon DOES get it. Because teaching middle school is pretty much just as tough as facing terrorists armed with explosive devices. For that reason, I dedicate this "Hooah" to you, Verizon!

And, thanks for reminding me that it's just about time to roll over in my bed and eat another tub of icecream:)

Who needs men? I do, but don't tell!

Almost 10 years ago, it started.
As the male population in our house began to disappear, I came to realize that it was up to us girls to hold down our makeshift fort. We surveyed the wreckage of the half-finished and never-started projects left behind by our male compatriots, linked hands in the bonds of female survival, and uttered those sacred words...

"I'll get the duct tape!"

Our initial efforts were, understandably, amateur- things like moving all the furniture on the 2nd floor into the bathroom, so that renovations could be done to the bedrooms, or somehow lifting all the furniture in the sitting room so that we could straighten out that big bubble in the carpet. Looking back now, I shake my head patronizingly at our sense of accomplishment over such trivialities. But, in that moment, we were invincible! We were going where few women had gone before! And there we coined our mantra: "WHO NEEDS MEN?!" (This was followed by a hearty high-five and a trip to Rita's or Starbucks:)

I soon learned that I wasn't the only woman who flexed her muscles behind closed doors and barred windows. I spent one summer living with family while they adjusted to life with a new baby. One day Mama Sara and I decided to tackle the landscaping while Baby was fast asleep. Mama was a farm girl, and I was already versed in the ways of independence, so we made a tough team. I grabbed the weed wacker and a pair of safety goggles and began to attack the waist-high weeds that had taken over the entire backyard. Mama grabbed the lawn mower and revved it up as she approached the front lawn.

The sweat glistened on our foreheads and our muscles flexed easily as we battled the elements.
We were women!
We were strong!
We were competent!
We were-
DANG IT! I just weed whacked my shin!

I paused from my rantings to run inside for some gauze or a tourniquet or something like that. As I glanced out the front window, I saw the epitome of female strength and determination:

There was Mama Sara whacking the mower with a broom!

Turns out our equipment was less-than-satisfactory, and she was doing her best to make that mower cooperate. (This is also the woman who, with a deranged glint in her eye, declared her new spatula to be the perfect future tool of discipline for Baby...) To this day, neither Mama Sara nor I will admit that we were defeated. We were merely hampered by the incompetence of those around us.

Inspired by such feats, I decided a couple years later to take on the job of ripping down the wall paper in the dining room. I chose a day when Mom was gone, hoping to surprise her upon her return. As I surveyed the large pieces of furniture around me, I pysched myself out for the heavy manual labor. I could do it! How hard could it really be to rip a little paper? Just then there was a knock on the door, and 4 of my West Point friends walked in. They'd heard I was attempting a project and wanted to help. Well, naturally, I didn't NEED them, but they were welcome to WATCH... or maybe go grab some supplies I didn't know were necessary... or perhaps help strip the walls...... after they possibly moved the furniture... but only if they WANTED to because it wasn't like I was asking or anything....

In the end we- I mean I- did a great job, proving once again that girls can do anything.

Just a few weeks ago, my dear mother and I were ripping up the carpets in our house. I started the project at 6PM, and we were nearly finished with the dining room by 9. As we knelt over the dusty wooden beams of the newly-exposed wood and pulled out the nails lining the perimeter of the room, I reflected again on how far this Dream Team had come. Surely we had arrived at a new level of professional independence. I mean, we could have rented ourselves out and started our own demolition company by this time! We were good, and we knew it! We could move furniture, we could strip wallpaper, we could landscape, we could rip up carpeting....

With a sense of satisfaction I nudged Mom, "Hey, who needs men, right?!"
And then I glanced across the room at the next room that lay before us- with three times as much furniture. I imagined Mom moaning as she fell out of bed the next morning. I felt my own weariness after a long day of work. Nonchalantly I whispered,

"...but I guess it would be sort of nice if the guys were around, huh....?"

"Yeah," she whispered back,"even though they got in our way and messed up our work, they were kind of fun to have around...."

The truth is that even we extremely talented, smart, and highly-competent (need I mention good looking?!)women occasionally need our men...

....but probably more often than we let on;)

Who needs men? We do! (But don't tell!)

Dreams, Sighs, and Wonderings

My husband is obviously NOT the man of my dreams.

Literally.

Experts say that dreams are essentially the SpinArt of our thoughts. Mine might begin like this: a dash of teaching. A speckle of excitement about a pedicure. A big glob of worry that I won't get the auto insurance paper work done. A dab of Dan. A blob of laundry. And a pinch of scrambled eggs for good measure. Drop them on the paper. Swirl. And voile! I dream that I am doing laundry on the morning of my first day of work. Suddenly, the dryer starts convulsing! I open the door cautiously, and an army of small feet marches out of the dryer. I follow them up the stairs, where my dining room has been transformed into a mechanic shop. Cars are being painted in every color of nail polish imaginable. I really like that hot green sparkly number, to be honest... And that's when he hits me! Square in the face with a balloon filled with eggs and bacon. Even in my dreams, he is such a clown... That's my Dan... in a diaper... because he's now... a... baby?

Yes, that, my friends, is the magic of dreamworld.

The dreams started a little before my wedding. Dan and I were on our honeymoon in Jamaica, where we had decided to go on a tour of the local falls. Something felt fishy to me, but  I couldn't figure out what. When we reached the top of the falls, sure enough, the tour guides showed their true colors. They were bandits and wanted our money. Well, being the heroes that we naturally are, Dan and I looked at each across the rock, and gave the understood signal. We then lunged at the marauders, temporarily disabling them, and made our getaway. We knew we needed to get to the airport, but it was clear that this was more than just a local brawl. Someone in the government knew we here....and they wanted us dead!

I never did get to see what happened to us on that trip, but I assume we figured out some daring way to get home. We usually do...

That particular dream was one-in-a-million for me, simply because Dan was actually in it. Any dreams I've had since then have been single missions. I pretty much spend all of my dreams these days looking FOR Dan.  Sometimes we're at his graduation. Except that I have to attend the ceremonies with one of his friends because he never shows up. Sometimes I'm waiting to watch a movie or play with him, but he's in his dorm sleeping. Once, the beach on which I was relaxing was suddenly overtaken by half-robot-half-human soldiers. They handed out soft drinks to us while they prepared us for the coming attack. I told the kind red-headed soldier that I couldn't find my husband, who was also a soldier. Please, if he could, tell my husband that I love him! That's when the ground began to move- it began to BREATH! As I lay on my stomach in the sand, trying to shield my little sister from the statue of John F. Kennedy that had arisen from the depths of the earth, I could FEEL the choppers pulsing through my body. "Where are you, Daniel? Where are you Daniel? Where are you Daniel?"

And I woke up.

My favorite Disney princess once sang, "A dream is a wish your heart makes when you're fast asleep." I agree with her! Because every night I wish my husband would stop fooling around and just come back to bed. Every night he sends me on a wild goose chase to find him, and I long for the day when he'll sit still for 5 minutes and let me give him a piece of my mind!

She also sings, "In dreams you will lose your heartache... whatever you wish for, you keep!"

Well, see that's the problem with these movies, friends. They lie. Like in every chick flick, the main female character just happens to be walking in a beautifully blooming garden where her hair just happens to be fluttering gorgeously around her flawless face; and as she just happens to sigh and look up with a longing glance, Prince Charming, who is from the outer farm regions of Zambia, just happens to be walking by. He kneels, whips out a sparkling diamond, and they live happily ever after. I've been sitting in this blooming living room for hours now, and noooo Prince Charming, people!!

I think that my husband must have sensed my frustration.

Just a few nights ago, I was in the middle of showing my friend Esther the fabulous - and deeply discounted- shoes I had found for her at Target. Just then, my phone went off. I was yanked from dream world and sleepily said, "Hello....?"

And there, of all people, was the man of my dreams!

And I heard my Prince Charming.
And we talked happily ever after for 30 minutes.
And I was reminded that "no matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true."

:)