Mar 17, 2019

A Sudden Gift

{photo by kDarling Photography}

“Sometimes love is a surprise, an instant of recognition, 
a sudden gift at a sudden moment that makes everything different from then on.” 
― Deb Caletti


Someday, you'll have a birth story. Someday, your dad and I will tell you about that day, and the funny things that happened, and the way we loved you as soon as they held you up and we met for the first time. And how, not long after that, it will be hard to remember when you weren't here with us, and I won't remember calling Millie and Walter without calling for you, too, and watch you pitter-patter into the room. It will seem like we've always been a family of five. It will seem like you've always been covered in our kisses.

But for now, I am still so surprised by you, little one. I'll tell you how.

~

I only found out because, after feeling sick for a couple weeks, I started getting a sharp pain on my side. I immediately diagnosed myself with appendicitis after a quick Google search, and resigned myself to emergency surgery. My mom told me to see a doctor, but I explained to her how many times I'd (possibly) had acute appendicitis before, and miraculously survived. Then circumstances shifted, and suddenly, I wondered if it was an undetected pregnancy going terribly wrong. I texted Sky but otherwise said nothing (since my appendix had just recovered moments before). As I passed Walter in the hallway that morning, he wrapped his arms around me in a big hug, then casually asked, "Are you pregnant?" I'd never heard him say "pregnant" before, and had no idea why he would bring it up like that. Stunned, I said no. And a few hours later, I bought a test at the drugstore and took it home. I was only ruling it out, so I could go back to my original worries that WebMD provided.

Two pink lines showed up, immediately and clear as day. I sat on the bathroom floor and stared, in disbelief and, simultaneously, terrified. I gasped and started crying. Before I could think of a sweet way to tell Sky, I video-called him at his desk in the middle of the workday, and sobbed the announcement. His eyes widened and he smiled, but I was a wreck. It was a lot to take in at once, to both be surprised by a pregnancy, and only knowing about it because I suspected something was not okay. I called the OB nurses, who deciphered my story through shallow breaths, and instructed me to go to the emergency room. Sky met us there.

After a quick rundown and a change into the patient gown, they took me to the dim ultrasound room. The man calmly announced that I was 9 weeks, 6 days pregnant. My mind reeled, because I knew with Millie and Walter as early as anyone could know, even before a positive test. Choking on the words and staring at the dark ceiling, I felt tears streaming down my face as I asked, "Is...it okay?" Yes, he assured me quietly. Everything was fine. The baby was right where it was supposed to be.

Sky and I kept the secret for a while. We had to get used to it ourselves (although he insists he really knew). But a few weeks later, just a couple days after we told the kids, I had a different, much more real scare that made me sure I would wake up without a baby. I called my mom and asked her to pray. I held tight to Sky that night and wondered what the next day would be like. I wondered if I would lose a child without anyone knowing it existed. I never had to think about that before. It was if my body and I were on opposite sides, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was the most helpless feeling I have ever felt in this world.

The next morning, the doctor had me come in. I tensed up as they searched for the heartbeat; they found it. I looked at Sky, too overcome to say anything. Then another ultrasound. I worried about the kids being there if something wasn't right. I gripped Sky's hand as they moved the wand over my stomach, remembering how we'd done the same thing twice before, but without any fear. There was the head, the arms, the legs. There was the heart again, beating visibly on the screen. The tech laughed as she tried to take the right pictures and measurements, because the baby was incredibly active, doing somersaults and tricks. Maybe God knew we needed that.

I realized that, while it is such a personal choice, I didn't want to keep it a secret anymore. If something did happen, I needed to be able to mourn and have people mourn with me. But we had good news to go on, so we had to have faith that everything would be fine. The next day, nervous as I was, we made it public. Through all the congratulations, I hoped I wouldn't have to share heartbreaking news later on.

Since then, all my checkups have been completely fine. and my belly is getting decidedly rounder. I've been a lot sicker this time than I ever was with the other two, and I'm still figuring out how to cope with that well. Sky has been the sweetest husband ever, and friends have brought meals over. Our house isn't as tidy, and life has had to slow down, but we are learning to navigate it. Millie and Walter talk about it all 50 times a day.

All this, and somehow, it hasn't felt real yet. We bought a stroller, discussed names late into the night, and talk about what the future will look like, but I still don't really believe it.

~

It's been a bumpy roller coaster ride, sweet one. So you can understand how I was surprised, and continue to be. Yet just this week, I have begun to feel your smallest of kicks, reassuring me that you are not only there, but that you are healthy and strong. You have my attention.

In a few days, we will find out if you're a boy or a girl. And late this summer, in the full heat of August, we'll all be introduced. Maybe you'll have blonde hair like Walter, or auburn like Millie. Maybe you'll be the spitting image of your dad, or favor my side more.

With all the uncertainty, I am sure of this one thing; you are a gift. And you will be so very, very loved.

Oct 9, 2018

Home Sweet Home

"Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? 
For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back." 

It's still nearly a daily occurrence here- at some point, Sky and I will look at each other with slight awe, and say, "We have a house."

Neither of us thought we would, or at least as soon. "Soon" is a funny word to use after we've spent our whole relationship in rentals, but it still seemed so far off. We had tired of our apartment several years earlier- the neighbor below who made us miserable and unable to feel comfortable letting our guard down in our own space, let alone having people over. The backyard that was a story below us and was shared by the other tenants, as well as the buildings beside us, and offered no privacy. Yet the apartment was mostly big enough, and in a good area, so we kept to the status quo.

But the old farmer couple who owned our building sold it to a big, impersonal company in town, who promptly raised the rent. That, coupled with our itch for our own, tiny piece on this earth gave us the motivation to at least look. We thought we'd save up for a year or more. We thought we'd look for a year or more. We ended up looking for only a couple months, and though there were a few houses we had nearly purchased, I can't say that I loved or necessarily even liked most of them. We were settling, and I knew it, but we could make it work and be grateful.

And then, we saw this house. Our house. The gorgeous wooden floors. The pretty staircase. The backyard with the swingset that seemed destined for Millie and Walter. The attic that could finally store all of Sky's military gear. The thought of parking our cars in an actual garage. The thought of living in peace, without noise from other people or worrying about disrupting them. After we had seen it all, I sat down on their couch and announced that I wanted this home. So did Sky. I cried every time I thought about moving, stunned that we could be so blessed, and I cried again as I watched my children finally have a place to play outside. It is definitely more expensive than our apartment, and comes with a different kind of stress as new, first time homeowners. There are sacrifices to be made. But though the process was harder than I thought it would be, it was so full of God's grace that I know we are meant to be here. The moment we got the keys, on my birthday no less, we drove straight over and did something we could never do in our apartment- we turned on music, and we had a dance party, the kids and I jumping up and down, spinning in circles until we were all dizzy and out of breath.


We walked around to the neighbor lady's house yesterday, the deep, green ivy creeping close to the edge of the sidewalk. She already calls hello to Millie and Walter. It's the kind of neighborhood my heart has always loved most- big, shady trees planted decades ago, houses that were built during big wars or near them, a different look to each. Some have window boxes, currently filled with small pumpkins and mums. Some have grand, wrought-iron gates, and others have idyllic white picket fences. There are tiny bungalows, cottages that look as if they belong in England, and even some large painted ladies with intricate details framing wide porches. American flags wave slowly at dusk, when the charm of it all glows its very brightest. There are cozy side streets with globed lights, and when you squint a little, you can almost picture the old cars that would have lined them years before. All of it makes me swoon.

Our home was built in the early 1940s. I love to picture it, smelling of new paint, and think about what it would have been like to be the first housewife here. Did she sit on the back steps and wave to her kids playing in the yard, her laundry swaying on the clothesline? Did she plant flowers here? Were her thoughts always on the war, and did she have someone she loved in harm's way? Did she sit at a desk at night, writing him letters by the fireplace? Was there a new baby nine months after his return? This is why I love old houses; there are stories here, some possibly grand, or just as ordinary as my own. They're woven into these walls, into this Midwestern soil, and the history of this town. We are a part of that history now, and though it's likely nothing that most people would ever notice, the deed to this land bears our names now, and we'll carry it though the decades to the next owners, who hopefully cherish what came before them, too.


It doesn't quite feel like my home yet. I think it's because I'm still in disbelief that it could be mine. We have waited so very long for this.

There are a hundred quotes I've read telling me that home isn't a place. It's a feeling, or it's who you're with, etc. It's everything but a sweet little house with a long driveway for riding bikes, a yard for finding butterflies, and bedrooms nestled close together. I'm sure all those writers meant well.

Tonight, though, I have to disagree with them. Home is right here, at last.

Feb 5, 2018

A Boy in Khaki, a Girl in Lace

The same old sweethearts, the same old place
A boy in khaki, a girl in lace
He bends to kiss her, she lifts her face
The boy in khaki, the girl in lace
Tenderly he sighs, "I will come back to you"
"Oh my darling, please do," she replied
And so we leave them in fond embrace
The boy in khaki, the girl in lace
{Performed by Dinah Shore here and Bing Crosby here, and written by Charles Newman & Allie Wrubel}

In the first few sweltering days of August, we flew a little airplane around the wide, green park at golden hour, the sun splintering into bright shards around our bodies. I watched Walter run with the plane as Sky and Millie tossed a disc back and forth. Everything was covered in warmth and wonder. There was a lush view before me to soak up and savor; I had not seen it for so long. Just a year before, Sky and I had stood at that park, watching the kids run far up the tall, green hill with little friends, explaining to their mom what was in store for us. We mused about timeline and scenarios, and being a veteran's wife, she understood that there is no knowing, only guessing. Only hope, mixed with fear. I remember how surreal it felt to hear the words coming from my mouth before I had the chance to let them sink into my mind. Yet, the panic growing in my stomach assured me they were absolutely real, backed by the weight only the Army can summon.

Standing on the other side of the deployment is like leaning towards the edge of the cliff. There is no way to know exactly how far down, what will bruise or break in the fall, or what is at the bottom. Not long ago, I dreamt that he was really only on leave all this time, and he thought everyone knew, but we didn't. And I was hysterical when he started packing up again. Strange how the fear still lingers. Like labor pains- the ones that everyone told me I'd forget, but I remember clear as day- that heartache is one forever stamped into the morning of our goodbye, and never fading. But there is dancing after mourning.

Surrounded by the feverish, wet heat of a late July night, he came back home. Up until just a few hours before, the dates and times would change, and then change again, exciting us and crushing us over and over. When the morning finally arrived, there was a text-the plane he was supposed to be boarding in mere minutes had mechanical issues. I sat with the phone in my hand, staring at it blankly, never hating air travel more than at that moment. I had taken the kids to the park, too nervous to stay at home and just wait, even though waiting was all I could do. I asked seventy questions. I begged my mom to pray. My phone was silent, tension mounting every second. 

And then, he got a new plane. Ten months of pent up tears found their way to the surface, and I curled up on the park bench, shoulders heaving, bawling like the day he left, because I was going to finally see my husband. Suddenly, impossibly, he was on his way home to Illinois.

{homecoming photos graciously taken by Ryann Kesler Photography}
I was shaking when I put on my white lace dress that evening, trying to breathe deep breaths while I applied waterproof mascara. It had been pointless trying to look presentable the morning he left, and I found it almost as impossible this time as well. I checked that the kids looked put together from outfits laid out in neat rows, grabbed our welcome home signs, and told them that we were heading to the airport for some "practice pictures". They dutifully climbed into the car, excited for a late night trip more than the prospect of sitting still for photos. I looked in the rear-view mirror and wanted to say something, but didn't. My eyes clouded with tears that I tried to hold back. Those sweet babies.




The photographer met me with a handshake and smile, and she snapped a few posed shots, playing along with the notion that this was all a rehearsal. We beamed and held our signs, and I adjusted Walter's suspenders eighteen times. All the while, I thought of how they were missing him just as they were every day of the deployment, while I buzzed around with nervous energy. My phone interrupted the sound of the camera's lens clicking-he texted that he had landed. Another text soon followed- he was there, inside. My heart fluttered as if I was on a first date, instantly feeling unprepared but oh, so ready. I took a breath. As I glimpsed those well worn boots at the top of the stairs, I quickly pointed towards them, and told Millie and Walter, "Pretend like Daddy's coming home right now." They turned.



A heartbeat or two in time. They each shifted to look once or twice before they realized they were looking at their father's face, a face they'd only see on a computer screen for nearly a year, a face they hadn't been able to touch, pixelated and flat. Was it really happening? My heart swelled.


And then, all joy broke loose. He was home.


They had their arms around his neck as he scooped them both up. Everything we had said and done, all the steps we had taken, all the places we'd gone- the whole year stopped in that moment, and began something new yet reassuring, long-awaited and dreamt of, and it was all so beautiful. It was whole again. The heartache instantly soothed. The weightless flurry of pure happiness.






He was sick- he had been since leaving his base several days before- and I could tell he looked more pale than normal, and a little thin. But we held each other so tightly, and I remembered the strength of his arms and the smell of his neck. His uniform and shrieks from the kids attracted attention from the other passengers, and I could hear applause, but it felt far off in the distance. All I could see was the man I loved and missed so intensely. Coming home from a deployment that didn't seem real, this night didn't seem real either. The relief was palpable. It's done.



Millie and Walter had no patience for a luggage carousel's pace, but they cheered when the green duffel bags appeared. Walter tried to carry one on his own, though it was twice his size. Anything to leave sooner and show their daddy the welcome home banner and balloons in the apartment.


We buckled them into their seats and pushed his bags into the trunk. The car doors slammed shut, and I looked at him in the brief silence. He was smiling. That airport has broken my heart more than once, but then, it was the most romantic place I could imagine. And in the night air that smelled faintly of jet fuel, Illinois cornfields, and summertime, he kissed me. We were going home, under the same glow of stars and moon at the same time. He slipped his hand into mine on the drive back, fitting just as perfectly as always.

His boots came off by the door. He wouldn't need them for a while.


Welcome home, Sky. It's nice to have you back again.

Jul 14, 2017

We Won the War



“And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.” 

He's been sending boxes home.

Inside, there is a familiar smell. I cut off a zip tie and instantly felt a rush of memories hit me with the scent of dusty lands, sweat, and fuel, all baked in 120 degree heat. Just like the boxes that were shipped to me all those years ago, these are full of uniform pieces he no longer needs, stacks of letters he saved, and a few non-perishables he kept from care packages, like a pretty leather Bible he plans to give to Millie when he gets here, and stuffed animals for both kids. (Millie asked him, sweetly and hopefully, if he could please bring back more unicorn Beanie Babies like the one someone tucked in a box he received, as if they grow there.) Washing all his clothing, folding it, and tucking it away in his closet felt like a scared privilege. Knowing that he will be home soon to use it is indescribable.

I keep thinking about what has happened during this deployment. In many ways, life will look exactly the same. But in smaller ways, perhaps, a lot has changed.

Millie has never been one to cuddle, even as a newborn. She is quite the daddy's girl, though. In the last year, however- maybe because I was simply the only parent available- she began reaching for hugs first, most times out of the blue. The girl who is too busy to stop for any sort of affection often snuggles up to my arm when we read together, or slips her hand into mine as we walk. I am so thankful.

It was a silent year. As an introvert, hushed moments are precious. I usually do quite well on my own, and love the space for my own thoughts. But I had the irony of feeling like I didn't have much quiet time, while feeling like the time I did have was very lonely. Busy, yes. But it didn't take away the loneliness.

Some things can be measured in numbers. 10 pizzas ordered. Copious amounts of Chinese food, too. A few gallons of Starbucks, hallelujah. (If deployments had sponsors, mine would be Starbucks, so it wasn't all bad. And to all of you who so kindly sent me Starbucks cards, letters, and care packages- thank you. You humbled me. It truly made a world of difference on the bad days.)


I have 323 pictures in the 'deployment' folder on my phone. Sometimes, he sent photos of unrecognizable dinners. A couple times, camels and palm trees. The truck he drove in that barely had room for a driver. The goofy smiles, the tired eyes. I saved each one, and every so often, the kids would cuddle beside me and ask to look at them. They needed the reminder that he was still out there somewhere. Maybe I did, too.

We stayed busy. We did much more than I would normally do. Several factors in life often limit where I go, but I pushed, we did, and I hope they'll have good memories. We showed up for even more library events than usual, we met friends at the park, we swam, and we saw fireworks. (Though the "staying busy" answer to deployment is kind of silly in my opinion. Staying busy may make an hour go faster, but not a week, and not a 2 am cry at night. We felt his absence constantly.)

{photo credit: my dad}
He missed so much. He missed several tooth fairy visits. Dentist and doctor appointments, growth spurts and shots. Swim lessons (missed those last year, too). Birthdays- Walter's and, in a couple days, his own. Thanksgiving, Christmas, our anniversary, Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Father's Day, 4th of July, and more. Millie's homeschool group program. Church on Sundays. Afternoons at the park, impromptu ice cream stops, watching the kids ride their bikes. Lost toy crises, scraped knees, backseat giggles. Bedtime kisses and prayers. Mornings of waking to a little blue-eyed love sneaking into the room and pulling blankets to his chin, asking to hold hands.

They are taller, smarter, and still as sweet. Walter dresses himself every morning now. He is so much more of a little boy than the baby he was a year ago. He zooms around confidently on his new scooter. Millie stumbles over far fewer words when she reads, and reaches for chapter books. She gleefully spread cream cheese on a bagel when she asked if she could make her own breakfast one day. She took her first jump off a diving board. There were a million and one moments that my heart would swell, and then sink a little because I knew he wouldn't see it.


But for Father's Day, Millie sorted through a handful of cards with funny pictures of animals and cute notes in the "from daughter" section, until we spotted a lone card in the Target aisle that said "military dad". Inside was something about a hero and a uniform. After hugging it to her chest, we took it home and she wrote Sky a lengthy note. There were some stick figures, a misspelled "you protect us", and an "I love you." And at the bottom, four short words. "We won the war."


It's been a long deployment. Some days, we barely made it until bedtime. Those babies of mine are brave and strong, though, and though we have had some long nights and longer days, they have handled it with more grace than I did, and even helped me smile during a lot of sadness. And of course, I admire Sky, for leaving all the things I never could, for working through difficult circumstances and frustrating people in a country that isn't his home, and for making us feel loved and cared for through four inches of a cell phone screen. I don't know if I have said it out loud, because it'd probably make both of us uncomfortable, so I'll just write it instead: he is truly heroic to me.

One of our biggest battles is over now, and what a hard, beautiful, heartbreaking, soul-searching year it has been.The tears that were sewn when we said our goodbyes will come back in a homecoming to rival them all. Soon, the map hanging in their hallway can come down, because oceans will no longer separate us. Instead, we'll fight the daily fights of the lovely mundane- teeth brushing, sibling quarrels, budget worries, burnt dinners, and car troubles. We'll do all of it side by side, in the sweet chaos and easy quiet of a life we've built together, remembering how we've all four been through our own kind of war, and how blessed we are to see the end.

Jun 20, 2017

The Buttons

"She was feeling the pressure of the world outside 
and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her 
and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all." 

Sometimes, when they ask how I am, I wish I could explain to them about the buttons.

During this deployment, Sky is gone to a lot of people in a lot of places. He is conspicuously absent from his job. The seat beside me at church is consistently empty. All the drills and training at his unit have breezed by without any planning and writing on our calendar for the last year. Emails about tasks to finish and projects to begin are deleted, not pertaining to him far, far away. The list of what he has missed seems to grow by the hour, something I plan to write more about in another post. But the most noticeable parts of his absence were those least noticeable to the rest of the world.

The buttons. I would twist my hand in different directions, hoping to feel the little, round disc and the loop it's meant for. Sometimes, I've called Millie and asked her for help, even though I know she is usually needing to ask me. And after a few failed attempts, I've felt the sting of tears. I would stop to take a breath, and find something else in the closet to slip on. It wasn't about the dress. That didn't matter. It was just one more thing that reinforced the constant of reality now- he wasn't with me.

How can I explain something that is so fused to our year, so intertwined in daily life that it's hard to pull from my chest and hold up to the light? It is every small instance of wishing him here. Forgetting what it feels like to belong to someone, to be one half of two during any social gatherings, fidgeting with my rings to remind myself that he loves me. Feeling sick but having somewhere to be or someone to meet, knowing that if I don't get in the car anyway, I'll have two disappointed kids. Moving my hand towards the other side of the bed and not having his meet mine. Reaching those parenting moments when I'm tempted to lock myself in the bathroom with a hard cider, facial mask, and a podcast, but remembering I'm always on duty. Trying to calm an upset child who is asking to talk to their daddy, but explaining that he will be asleep until hours after they're in bed. Hearing or watching something that is hysterical, but relaying it to him in the past tense, rather than glancing over to see him wiping away tears from laughter. Everything feels past tense these days.


And as for Millie and Walter? I would imagine it's also the little things, like feeling his hands lifting them up in the air, sneaking a sugary snack with him when I have my back turned, or having another soothing presence there for brushing teeth and bedtime prayers. The pride of hanging on to him and thinking he's the greatest ever. Maybe it's also the small victory of tucking their daddy dolls in the closet until the next time he has to go.


What a strange feeling it is to have someone in your life without having their presence there, too. While he's been away, it's as if a pause button was pressed. We can still talk, and laugh, and even argue, but the substance isn't there in quite the same way. Funny, because if you had asked me five or ten years ago, I would tell you that words are all the substance there is, or at least all I need. But something shifted, and I think maybe, there's just as much value in sitting in someone's company, completely silent and still, as there is in all the long conversations in the world. (Come to think of it, there are people in heaven right now that I would love to talk with, but even more, to simply experience again.) To watch someone, to study their features, expressions, and actions, can often conjure up vivid stories in my imagination, because they give much away with those little clues. As simple as it sounds, one of the things I miss most is to have my head on his chest while he twirls a piece of my hair in his fingers. That's become home, and home has been missing for such a long time.


I am so grateful that, other than a few days here and there, we've been able to count on working internet to exchange words. The communication has been pretty steady, and reassuring for that reason alone. But I'm ready for my husband to be home. To say, "Here, I've got it." And one by one, to feel the buttons being pulled through buttonholes, and a gentle pat on the back when every one is done. That's when all is right again.
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