Veterans Day

On February 15, 2003 I dropped H off in a parking lot. I fiddled with the necklace he had given me for Christmas only a few months before as I tried to figure out what to say to him. He stood before me, we hugged and kissed one last time and he said, "OK, so I will see you....whenever..." He smiled and I smiled but they were worried, nervous smiles. We knew that we had no idea when or if he would ever come home. Our future was a giant question mark.

Over the next six months I lived on a separate plane of existence. War was declared. Letters trickled in out of order. I lived for a dusty envelope to arrive in my mailbox. Flowers arrived for my birthday through H's best friend. I chuckle now that the florist sent yellow roses tied with a red, white and blue flag ribbon. At the time I was not amused. It felt ominous, not cheery.

When H was on the news one morning I called in a favor and got the tape. I had copies made for the entire family. The local recording company dropped them off personally saying, "We made you extras, we just wanted you to know how thankful we are for his service." When I forgot to start H's car for the duration of his absence the mechanic fixed all $800 worth of the problems for nothing. He simply said, "No charge ma'am. Tell your husband 'thank you'." The swamp cooler (that's the a/c for you non-desert folk) repair man came out of retirement because his son was too busy, did a rush job over a holiday weekend and made our house nice and cool because H might be coming home that weekend. It would be two more months before he felt that damp swamp cooler breeze.

When he finally did arrive, at 3 a.m., on a dark, black summer morning it was a huge relief. My office out in town had hung a giant banner welcoming him home. Our small town was so happy to see him and all the other troops on home soil. For now we wouldn't think about the future. Only that very moment.

It's not always such a warm welcome that has greeted our troops. My father received nothing of the sort. His sea bag of clothes was stolen when he arrived home. As a Vietnam Vet in the 1970's he couldn't find work simply because he served his country. So many of those men are lost soldiers even now that they are home and have been here for years.

On this Veterans Day we honor and thank them all. No matter what. Happy Veterans Day to all those who serve then and now. We thank you.


H & me at a family wedding in 2005.

My father when TD was born.

Channeling Kevin Mcallister

I dropped the girls off today with my mother.

As soon as I got in the car I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. A giggle escaped from my lips as I thought about the scene from Home Alone where Kevin first realizes he is alone and yells, "I'm free...." as he runs amok throughout the entire house.

The idea that H and I will get our first full nights sleep in over two weeks makes me rub my hands in glee and sweet anticipation. TD has taken to waking up each night with a cough, a hurt leg, an "I don't know..." and we're exhausted.

I might even get to cut the hang nails that I've been harboring for the last few weeks, return some emails, have dinner with H with entire conversations sounds like a rockin' good weekend to me.

Back in the Saddle Again, Almost

The annoyance at Christmas music should have been my first clue. I wanted to rip the radio out of the wall each time I heard 'Jingle Bells'. 'It's Beginning to Look Like Christmas' seemed overly sarcastic in its tone and suddenly made me cringe instead of smile with content. The throwing away of many Christmas goodies was the second clue. It was time to start working out again. Time to start clearing my brain before I became hostile. Actually, it was a bit too late for becoming hostile. How about overly hostile? Throw in nearly 70 degree temps outside and it became a no-brainer. The sky was a deep steel grey that threatened rain at any moment and the warm wind whipped around in a damp breeze that might make others stay inside. Not me though, I was bound and determined from the time I cracked opened the first window that I was going to get a workout in of some kind that day.

As the day wore on with feedings, diapering, grocery shopping, tending to a sick spouse, laundry and everything else that the day can throw at you, I was beginning to kiss my dreams of a work out goodbye. The sky was looking darker and I could have just packed it in, "But it is the end of December!" my brain screamed and "It's nearly 70! You must get out! Quick, quick before it's too late!" So I did. I dashed outside without a second thought, iPod strapped to my arm. I wanted to take off running.

Except I couldn't. The wind was whipping my hair around into a snarled, damp mess. It seems I had forgotten to tie it back. And my breasts. Oh, my aching breasts. They weren't smashed to my chest with an industrial sports bra or even an ace bandage-like nursing bra. Nope. Just a plain, old, barely holding them in, all-the-laundry-is-dirty bra. Great. No running for me then. I began to reconsider my jaunt outdoors until I caught the strains of Billy Idol's, 'Dancing with Myself' and I no longer cared. It didn't matter that I was so out of practice in even the most elemental parts of getting ready for a workout. That I couldn't run like I wanted to. I was outside, the holidays were almost over and at almost six weeks post-partum I was working out again, even if it is by taking baby steps.

Christmas Came Early

Santa came to our house early this year. He brought three things with him. All for me.

1. Ankles! Folks, I can see my ankles and there are bones in them! No more puffy feet either. I have huge feet but I love them and my bony ankles and I'm so happy to have them back!!

2. A new couch. Words cannot express how much I love this microfiber, eco-friendly stain resistant object. It's contemporary, new and yet to be touched by dog butt or toddler hands. Oh yeah, that's because it won't be delivered until Friday.

3. PANTS! Glorious pants! My post-TD pants were lost but now found along with a slew of others from last year. While they don't all fit- the bigger ones do and they are not maternity pants! I tried on a few pairs this morning and voila! They fit! I screamed, "This is the best day ever!" quite a few times and pranced around in non-elastic waist glory. Whoo hoo!!

Now if only I could get those pesky hospital bills paid for by Santa I would be overjoyed. However, I think the absence of cankles, a new couch and PANTS! Glorious PANTS! is enough.





Also, a big THANK YOU to Lattes and Life for sending me this award. Pass it on to those you know and sorry for taking so long for me to say thanks. It's been a bit of a quagmire over here the last month or so.

Competition for the Cruises?

The transformation was almost complete. Three inches had been lopped off my hair and the Gwyneth look was being ushered in. The bangs had indeed grown out. Just in time too because I'm headed to Atalanta this week for a work thang and wanted I my hair to look it's shiny best.

Then the unthinkable happened.

Fringe.

Just a bit. Um.. OK, that's fine I suppose until my stylist took out a large chunk by accident or what, I'm still confused. I screamed, "WHOA! WHOA! WHOOOAAAH! What are you doing?!?! WHAT just happened?!" She looked at me in horror and realized that she had gone and taken out too large of a chunk. She claimed she could fix it and I braced myself, white knuckled in the chair. I knew what was coming. Gone would be the cut I had taken a year to achieve. Ushered in would be the cut that I had painstainkingly grown out in the last year. The hair style I loathed the most. My BP escalated as I watched more fringe being cut in and my long hair now being reduced to just the back. Yick. I was left with what reminded me of the Florence Henderson 'do.

I would not cry.

Suddenly, it was clear. The only way to fix this mishap would be to just cut it all off. I would go from cutting off three inches to six. Oy. Not the look I was trying to achieve. There are a couple of reasons I'm uber-sensitive about my hair. Not only is it tough to grow out but my hair is like a talismn. When I was a gawky teen with longer hair I had some issues, shall we say? My hair was one way certain people exerted their control over me. I left the smallest state in the country to get away from this person and still with about eight states between us the problems continued. I promptly transferred to another university and spent the first week skipping around campus Julia Roberts-style a la Sleeping with the Enemy. It was then that I cut my hair. I turned myself into the platinum blonde cute (a term I loathe. I would rather be called a C. U. Next Tuesday) college coed.

In this new 'do I seemed sunny on the outside but the angry, man-hating and fearing girl who was never anything more than cute (think 5 year-olds, bunnies, fluffy clouds, giant lollipops and the color pink.) was roiling away in a dark, twisted mess on the inside. I wanted a WWF style smackdown cage fight with the world. I raged often breaking glass in my sorority house parking lot just for the release. I went to group and one -on-one therapy. It too me years to get over that earlier mess. I felt like I had been through a war. I worked so hard to emerge a woman who had no bitterness and hate. A woman with self-esteem. What transpired was a the person I am today with longer hair. Hair that I could put in a ponytail if I so chose and no one was going to tell me to take it out and cover my face and neck with it. Hair that suddenly removed me from the realm of cute and illicited compliments of 'beautiful, or heavens to mercatroid! 'hot' and even 'sexy'. I felt transformed.

Cutting my hair back into the short hair cut I realized does not just make me frustrated that now I actually have to style it each day vs. putting it up when I need to be out the door quickly or like the average suburban housewife, it feels like I just killed a part of me that was very vital. I don't see the woman I've become in the mirror right now. I see the girl who fought so hard to get away from so much pain and misery. I don't like that too much, it reminds me of too many hard times.

What can I say? As pathetic as this may all sound, because I know it is just hair and it will grow back, I guess I really am like Tony Manero, "I work really hard on my hair."

But Katie Holmes and Suri Cruise?



You have some competition.



Now if I can only get it to look that good each day...

Chicken Soup for the Soul?

You want to know what's gross?

When you spill chicken soup on your jeans. Yeah it feels disgusting.

Hot Soup.

Wet denim. (that better not get me some bizarre hits from Google.)

Stuck to your leg.

Sick!

You want to know what is even more disgusting?

When you bend down to clean that up and fail to realize that your hair has gone into the bowl still filled with soup. When you look back up because your kid is screaming "Yicky! Gross Momma!" you get smacked in the face with wet chicken soup hair and it sticks to your cheek.

Yeah, that's pretty gross.

I felt like the weird girl in school who everyone thinks smells like soup after that.

Why in the World?

Note to Self: Cheetos, no matter how fabulous they look in the store do not go well with Cheerios. Ever. It is a bad idea. Remember this later when you think it might taste good again and you have forgotten the sick of Sunday, April 20, 2008.

In other news T.D. now knows how to say, "Daddy works for the man!"

Awesome.