tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14953822621670865682024-03-06T14:03:45.935-06:00the midwest pressmarriage, motherhood, & military life in the heartlanderikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-85596206244872481872020-05-21T22:36:00.000-05:002020-05-21T22:36:25.760-05:00The Lilacs<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHu5FGPDeeFYGjTruT7h_W8reVG69dBYCZbbizl8zuOSu38vQ7eFlwzm9yjojIDnEfhjVJOYePp84kCkZi2QGMEX8uUNe9JENVZybcnIApHDSekJtyauN29Tcv6B7g61WsHl703A9o8TY/s1600/2020-05-21+09.22.57+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHu5FGPDeeFYGjTruT7h_W8reVG69dBYCZbbizl8zuOSu38vQ7eFlwzm9yjojIDnEfhjVJOYePp84kCkZi2QGMEX8uUNe9JENVZybcnIApHDSekJtyauN29Tcv6B7g61WsHl703A9o8TY/s400/2020-05-21+09.22.57+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{hanging hearts for healthcare workers}</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">"Right now I want a word that describes the feeling that you get--a cold sick feeling, deep down inside--when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it. And you know, for the first time, for the very first time, that there will now be a </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">before</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"> and an </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">after</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">, a </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">was</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"> and a </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">will be</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">. And that you will never again quite be the same person you were."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/36346.Jennifer_Donnelly" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Jennifer Donnelly quotes">Jennifer Donnelly</a></span><br />
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When I was little, I remember the lilacs. They were growing against the side of our dilapidated, old garage, with large purple blooms that carried the most intense, beautiful scent my five year old self had ever experienced. I remember a feeling of intoxication with spring, with the flowers that towered over me, with the blue sky beyond them. My senses overwhelmed, it was all bigger than life and my smallness only made it all the more beautiful. Though so many parts of my childhood- ones that I thought were so significant, and would mark me forever- have long faded, that memory lingers still.<br />
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A few evenings ago, we walked through spotted sunlight on the sidewalk, tulips and flowering trees as our guide. Showers of sweet pink petals fluttered upon our worried heads, lining the street like a wedding aisle. The sun was beginning to fade, and laughs from the kids running ahead of us shone in the warm glow. It would all be so perfect if the world was not on fire.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{stores: empty}</td></tr>
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All I keep wondering is this: what could they possibly think now? In fifty years, I won't want to read the stories from other adults about what happened in the year 2020. I'll want to know what they think, these little heart with so much change swirling around them. And yet, I'm afraid to ask.<br />
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I have written so much here, only to feel my hands give up typing before I can share what I feel. I want to say something worthy of it all. I want to write something that my children can read someday, and know my thoughts in this moment. But all that seems to come out just adds to the noise of politicians and TV channels. All that breathes out is anger, and shock, and bone-weary tiredness, and a discouragement unlike anything before. Every morning, I wake up, remember, and feel my heart drop. I don't know how to write about this. I don't know.<br />
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I can't make sense of this life. Nothing is right. The same way these masks are hiding mouths and disguising so much emotion and expression, I feel as if society has changed too much for me to recognize anymore. It's been over two months since quarantine started- quarantine, a word too quaint for our modern world, and now is discussed hourly, obsessively. And yet, just in March, I was sitting in an arena with Sky and thousands of people, shoulder to shoulder, laughing at a comedian and buying beer and pretzels from a snack bar. The next day, they closed it down, and not a single show since. Am I lucky for that? Cursed? Did I escape a terrible reality, or am I living it now? Where <i>am</i> I?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3F5mzV_OFjA_EIIVvB_7sPBgGJhaoQ1yeOC_t8eG28vCITrcNpr1A6m3aN4EnkaQkTqH-qQMvtLmbOwHLImLCYA2wI7D6HvaAFjXqVPV569yDhMwdvtq_nb8gYyOeZhqBS2Nwl8Rr7s/s1600/2020-05-14+09.53.05+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM3F5mzV_OFjA_EIIVvB_7sPBgGJhaoQ1yeOC_t8eG28vCITrcNpr1A6m3aN4EnkaQkTqH-qQMvtLmbOwHLImLCYA2wI7D6HvaAFjXqVPV569yDhMwdvtq_nb8gYyOeZhqBS2Nwl8Rr7s/s400/2020-05-14+09.53.05+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{a food pantry sign that was posted in our neighborhood}</td></tr>
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In 1918, the great flu pandemic took away the vibrancy of vision. It became a strange, telltale symptom of a quick and lethal disease. Colors lacked intensity and meaning. Everything was faded, saddened, as if life itself had fallen into a miserable depression while the whole world shook with a frightened pause. It feels the same today. Some people seem to almost rejoice in their open schedule, their cancelled plans, their forced rest. But I don't feel that rest. It's not just the fact that our home life hasn't changed much (something that I am ultimately grateful for, <i>especially</i> that we already homeschooled). It is that all those little things- sitting in a cheery cafe with the boys while Millie has a Spanish lesson, waiting for the piano teacher to knock on the door before suppertime, and even trying on ten shirts at the thrift shop only to put them all back- that gave life more meaning than I gave them credit for, and what felt frivolous before now feels like an essential part of the framework of life.<br />
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I have always been one for tradition. I am sentimental beyond all reason. But this year, there is to be no sentimentality because the traditions are gone. Swimming at the pool and getting snacks that melt all over our hands, startling, bright fireworks and noisy parades on the 4th of July, watching the Kentucky Derby for those few and swift thrilling minutes- the bookends of summer that held together the beauty of community and normalcy, the proof of a celebrated moment- disappeared. I have tried and tried to think differently about it, but it stings in a way I can't explain.<br />
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How is it possible that I disagree with both political parties and so many leaders? How is it that I can get angry at a stranger on Facebook? How can I feel frustrated with friends and family who are doing things we're told not to for the sake of others, or confused that it's supposed to be safe for them in one state, but not here in Illinois? How am I supposed to tell my kids that people are very sick, and so many more have lost their jobs, and that even the grown ups don't know what they're doing? We're supposed to be the voice of reason, but I feel like I've lost my voice completely.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4pxouaGuieJIdTOQBuYCc6U6NxHQqr0awBLFEQPm6kmnsK2pBpM8xKF8RnxliAbPBIxr_j6oN7e_aifClFL7Lo5ekjD7A3tfnACJ9alTyfK8LZaZi5SoEUIMM5lwweF5n_XBeK83uZ4c/s1600/2020-05-21+09.22.56+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4pxouaGuieJIdTOQBuYCc6U6NxHQqr0awBLFEQPm6kmnsK2pBpM8xKF8RnxliAbPBIxr_j6oN7e_aifClFL7Lo5ekjD7A3tfnACJ9alTyfK8LZaZi5SoEUIMM5lwweF5n_XBeK83uZ4c/s400/2020-05-21+09.22.56+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{still can't believe how emotional this sight makes me}</td></tr>
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When I was little, my worries felt big. Really, though, they were how far around the block I was allowed to ride my bike, and how I could talk my parents into letting me spend the night at a friend's house. I didn't have to worry about what surfaces I touched, or how close I stood to someone else, or why a park was closed. My parents didn't keep the news off because of the incessant briefings proclaiming loudly what the politicians still didn't know. And when I look at the faces of these three small people I'm entrusted with, my heart hurts terribly. My prayer is that they will never look at this kind of a life as normal.<br />
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Spring, of all times, is supposed to give us the grace of hope. I know, just like the scary parts of our history on this earth, that this will eventually fade. I know that something that will mark our generation in the deepest of ways will be forgotten in a few decades' time by many. I worry, I guess, about how long it will take to get to the luxury of forgetting. The unknown is the hardest part of all.<br />
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Until it becomes a memory, I have to do the small things that insist life is normal in some ways- tuck Millie and Walter in at night. Nurse Harry and watch him learn new things every day. Plan ways to celebrate three summer birthdays somehow. Tell Sky that I'm too tired to cook dinner. Sit on the front steps, looking at his baby toes. Look for a bicycle to take the kids on a neighborhood ride. Open my Bible to search for passages about joy in trouble. Take walks in the evening under beautiful dogwoods and cherry blossoms.<br />
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And I hope, in it all, that they don't remember the confusion, the panic, and sadness of what was lost. I hope they only remember the lilacs.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-59259279928352802252019-09-23T21:54:00.000-05:002019-09-24T13:55:19.634-05:00His Story & Mine: The Three Lions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDpppMKD8dVPjnFrCuiIehuYszcc-Z3vrYsz3XHoSsQtkGQlNiE3D8orzenU9pdVc6rdw4Fkwc7seUKyHe0uH7EbC4bRzWPLOciym0YnB00zTADAwgm2AY2Sk7zPshXj5KqVXcOP1mUs/s1600/2019-09-10+09.31.03+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1281" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDpppMKD8dVPjnFrCuiIehuYszcc-Z3vrYsz3XHoSsQtkGQlNiE3D8orzenU9pdVc6rdw4Fkwc7seUKyHe0uH7EbC4bRzWPLOciym0YnB00zTADAwgm2AY2Sk7zPshXj5KqVXcOP1mUs/s400/2019-09-10+09.31.03+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">There should be a song for women to sing at this moment or a prayer to recite. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name that moment."</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">— </span><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/626222.Anita_Diamant" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: lato, "helvetica neue", helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; text-align: left;" title="Anita Diamant quotes">Anita Diamant</a></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Three times, I've met a lion face to face; </span>the proof is soft, snuggled on my chest with tiny snores and a warm head full of velvet hair.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> And though I was shaking each time the lion's eyes met mine, I walked away without his teeth marks. I'll tell you how.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p> </o:p> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This time, I was more scared than I had ever been before.When pregnancy aches and pains would keep me up during the hours when the streetlights were glowing, I would hold those fears in my hands, turning them over and over until I had them memorized, examining every facet until I knew them by heart. The rounder my belly grew, the greater my anxiety. I compared it to being tied to train tracks, hearing the whistle screaming closer and closer. And while I could remind myself over and over that a billion women had done this before- that I had done this before, twice, no less- all I could feel was the fear. Friends would encourage me that I was getting so close to meeting my baby boy, that it would all be worth it- but the kicks often felt like echos, second to the task I had before me. I didn't know who I would be holding, but I did know the pain that was coming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom flew in on a Sunday morning. My due date was that Tuesday, so I was glad she made it before he was born. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Early Monday morning, I had some real contractions, much different from the Braxton Hicks I'd felt for months. I began to keep track of them for the first time, and realized they were close enough to go to the hospital by the midwives' standards, although I wanted to stay home as long as possible. I told Sky I didn't want him to drive to work. We all waited, unsure. After a few hours, however, they all but disappeared. Even after two previous labors, my body seemed confused. Emotionally, it was exhausting to feel like it was happening, only to have it all come to a halt. I didn't know what to think. But I had a doctor's appointment the following day, so I hoped to hear I had at least made some progress since the last one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My due date: Tuesday morning at 3 am. I woke up. It wasn't unusual- I had dealt with insomnia for weeks, due to heartburn and an intense need to watch breathing/relaxing videos on YouTube, trying to prepare myself for it all. Around 6 am, I felt the same contractions as the day before. I timed them again, and again, they were close. Sky thought he should go to work, and I agreed- no point in missing days for nothing. My mom asked how I was doing and got herself ready just in case. After a little while, I decided I should probably get ready to go, too. I kept telling my mom that I wasn't sure if I should call Sky or not, until a few contractions helped me decide. Around 10:30 that morning, I called him to come home, then called my dad to pick up Millie and Walter. (I also called my midwife and let her know I needed to cancel the day's appointment, because it looked like I was having a baby instead. She laughed and wished me luck.) Once I knew everyone was in motion, I started to get really nervous, afraid that it would be another false alarm. By the time everyone got there, things had slowed a little. I said goodbye to the kids, and tried to figure out what to do. The contractions got farther apart. My mom brought up walking several times before I agreed, so she, Sky, and I took a very slow stroll around the block, and up and down our street a few times. I had to stop for each contraction, and could tell they were picking back up. They would talk about the features of a house we passed and I would chime in once the pain was over, describing the red flower vine overtaking the front of a home. Finally, I got too hot, and we went back indoors. I did some laps around the dining room table, still nervous to go early and trying to avoid an induction if I ended up getting admitted too soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy354oiGC_uT3p4Bx7V2P1qIoZFUX_8zGgsWyEEH0PcNHucetYZpYiczdij5V_5pxjU9M7UXY-CHAiy2rRNCzQyyH19yZOmymYxrB3MZPtEvR9Thh_PErMQiV-E8fOwvUf5SrfRO7Lbx8/s1600/2019-09-10+09.28.42+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy354oiGC_uT3p4Bx7V2P1qIoZFUX_8zGgsWyEEH0PcNHucetYZpYiczdij5V_5pxjU9M7UXY-CHAiy2rRNCzQyyH19yZOmymYxrB3MZPtEvR9Thh_PErMQiV-E8fOwvUf5SrfRO7Lbx8/s320/2019-09-10+09.28.42+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">{I took a photo before we left for the hospital- I knew it would be my last pregnant picture.}</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But the pain slowly grew stronger, and the thought of having a baby in the car did not ease my anxiety, so eventually at around 2pm, I was ready to go. Once I got settled in the car, it felt more like an emergency than a quick jaunt down the road, and I asked Sky to hurry. Thirty seconds later, we hit the road construction on our street, and I nearly lost it for a second. We pulled up to the ER a few minutes later, and my mom helped me out while Sky parked the car. The receptionist asked if I was in labor, and then asked how far along I was- "Today is her due date!" I heard my mom exclaim. They sent for a wheelchair, and after a long elevator ride, in which <i>everyone in the hospital </i>got on and off, stopping at every floor (I'm looking at <u>you</u>, Karmen with a K), they wheeled me onto the L & D ward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The pictures of newborn babies, the frosted glass doors, and the room signs brought back a floor of memories from Millie and Walter. I let out a sob, overwhelmed that I was back in the same space again. The nurse told me to change into a gown, and I started to worry again that it would all be for nothing. They quickly checked to see how dilated and effaced I was, then told me I was staying, and got me to a delivery room. I remember Sky pointing out the baby bed at some point, and being slightly surprised and in awe of it, even then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We talked with the nurse a while, met the midwife on call, and I settled in with a birthing ball, rolling my hips, and looking out the big windows that gave a view of our town and beyond, all green and sunny. Sky and my mom took turns rubbing my back, and the nurse checked on us often, stopping to laugh at The Office episode that was playing. The whole room began to fade into the background as the contractions intensified, and I got into the shower to get more pain relief. There was a bench to sit on, and my mom and Sky held the shower head over my belly while continuing to rub my back. I felt so selfish during this time, knowing they had to be tired, but feeling like I needed them too much to ask them to stop. Sky turned on the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWWf-v8IuHKYn1-O83yNkrL3EdYsZXASx">worship music playlist</a> I had made a couple weeks prior, and I tried to breathe through each contraction as I listened to the familiar songs from church float in the air, trying not to get emotional when I heard "It Is Well". I didn't even know if I would be present enough to hear any music, but I was so thankful that I could focus on it, and have the constant reminder that God was there with me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After changing positions in the shower, I made my way back to the ball for just a while, until it was time to get onto the bed. <a href="https://chambanachik-live.blogspot.com/2010/08/her-story-and-mine.html">With Millie</a>, I had pictocin and an epidural, and a horrible experience with them. <a href="https://chambanachik-live.blogspot.com/2013/07/his-story-and-mine.html">With Walter,</a> I didn't have any medication, and while it was very intense, it was a better decision for me. This time, the only option I wanted them to offer me was the nitrous oxide gas, based on what I had read and what I thought was best for myself. Someone brought it up, and I said yes. They told me how to breathe, but the mask felt a little suffocating, so I did the best I could, trying to find the energy to raise it up to my face as the next wave hit. The midwife had tried to talk to me about breaking my water, but I did not know how I could handle more pain, or less breaks between it. Finally, my mom pulled her aside, worried that I was getting too exhausted. My mom explained to me that it was my choice, but she didn't want me to become to tired to push, and I agreed. After all, it had been over 16 hours since my first contraction at this point- a far cry from the short labor I had hoped for/expected, since Walter was only 5.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p> </o:p> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once my water was broken, things happened quickly like the midwife promised. She told me there was a little meconium, so the NICU team would be called in just to be on the safe side. I pushed for about an hour and a half, feeling completely drained of energy, very hot, and nervous. Towards the very end, they made me turn onto one side, then another, and then gave me oxygen and fluids. I started to worry about the baby, and started to get nervous about the possibility of a c-section, because it was threatened with Millie. The midwife told me to curl my body around the baby, tuck my chin in, and push, and though I had stopped being able to respond much to anyone hours ago, I heard her voice in the distance and gave it everything I had. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once you've had a baby before, you know the signs. I felt as if nothing was happening until that moment when there is a spark that sets the whole room on fire. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Suddenly, I heard the midwife say to page NICU. With Sky on one side of the bed and my mom on the other, I heard their encouragement heighten, and everyone's voices got higher. The quiet nurse began to speak up, too.The lamp on the baby bed, which looked miles away, got switched on as the nurses poured into the room. I felt a huge gush and heard a cry. He was here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't remember the order of what happened after that. I know the placed him right on my chest, and his crying was a relief. I remember seeing Sky wiping tears from his eyes, and giving me a kiss. I remember my mom holding him for the first time. And when the nurse asked what we bet he weighed, none of us guessed the 9 lbs he was. We all laughed at the size of his footprints, and marveled that when they placed him on his belly on the warmer, he lifted up his head like he had forgotten to be a newborn first. He was born at 12:34 am on August 14- just 34 minutes past his due date. If I hadn't been so stubborn about breaking my water, he likely would have been there right on time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">By the time we got to our postpartum room, it was 4:30 am, and I had been awake for over 24 hours. Sky and my mom were completely exhausted, and while he drove her home and brought our bags up from the car, I held our new son, marveling that it was all over and he was finally in my arms. All of the last year- the surprise of those two pink lines on the test, the papers from the emergency room with "threatened miscarriage" typed on them, the night I thought I was losing him, and all the aches, pains, sleepless nights from the heartburn, and crying desperate tears from the severe nausea- it was all gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've conquered one of my biggest, deepest fears- three times. When Sky told me he was proud of me, my heart could not have been more full. It's not the length of the labor, the medication used or how big the babies were (although I am<i> certainly </i>not above claiming the extra credit if I get any)...it's that I did it. My body did it. By God's grace, they are all here, all healthy, all wonderful, and I am their mama.</span></div>
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<o:p>~</o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Tonight, I was looking at your eyes as you dreamily stared at mine. It's amazing that we share a story together, and that I remember some of it before you, but you'll continue it long after I am gone. You'll never know who I was before we met. But I hope that, someday, I will be able to look down from Heaven and watch your life in full, because my heart will still be with you, loving you. You see, Harry, it's you, Millie, and Walter that make me a mama, and along with your dad, are the people I most adore.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love you, my darling boy. I am so glad you were made for us, and that God put together those cheeks, the softness of your hair, and your </span>inquisitive, searching eyes just for your dad and I, just so we could be the ones to start you on your journey in this world.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm so happy that you're home. </span></div>
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-85009949828573405702019-07-24T10:01:00.000-05:002019-07-24T10:01:11.230-05:00Gathering<h1 style="background-color: white; color: #382110; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 20px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px 0px 2px; text-align: center;">
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<i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">“It is familiarity with life that makes time speed
quickly. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">When every day is a step in the unknown, as for
children, </span></i></div>
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<i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">the days are long with gathering of experience . . .” </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<i style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 18.0pt;">― </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10.5pt;">George Gissing</span></i><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 15pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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We're deep in warm days of the daylight hours outside in the summertime: backyard picnics, catching bugs in a jar, long swingset conversations. There is excitement over the brightly colored butterflies that land nearby or the tiniest baby bunnies that have taken up residence near the flowers, munching on white clover. The whole outdoors is a treasure hunt in blades of grass and sidewalk cracks, where rocks or leaves become valuables to share.<br />
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They are the days of sounding out big words at bedtime, spreading out joke books to tell fifty and understand five, and staying up a little too late to read the story that is too good to put down. One of them will pull <u>Little House in the Big Woods</u> from the shelf and ask me to read at lunchtime. They ask what a phrase means or giggle at a funny chapter.<br />
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They play travel bingo in the backseat, shouting when they see a bus or the sign they're hunting for. They ask for quarters to spend on the prizes in the machines at the grocery store. They delight in talking to everyone, about everything, and find topics of conversation easily, like a scraped knee, a favorite animal, or a rainy day.<br />
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There are so many questions; some are about how things work, and some, about everything bigger and beyond, like God, or why bad things happen, or what heaven will be like. And the answers come from my heart or from Google, except for the ones where I have to admit, "I don't know, either."<br />
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Monkey and Mousey are constant companions, snuggling under their arms every single night, rolled onto or tossed under blankets in the thick darkness, and sometimes get brought along for things like a doctor appointment that is just a <i>little</i> bit scary. They are worn from years of hugs and secrets, real like the Velveteen Rabbit.<br />
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Santa Claus still brings presents every Christmas, simple things like an ice cream cone illicit squeals of joy, and spending an afternoon with PaPa is a great delight. A letter in the mail with their name may as well be made of gold. Small arguments over a toy are monumental, and disappointments sink deep. Everything now is large and forever, until it isn't.<br />
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My name is still <i>Mama</i> and <i>Mommy,</i> and they don't know that it melts my heart when they say it, or that I'm clinging to it in anticipation of the time it will suddenly turn into just "Mom". My neck is still hugged, my hand still held, my words still needed and believed. His name is <i>Daddy</i>, and his knack for magic tricks, silly jokes, and simple instruction, as well as the uniform he sometimes wears, gives him an almost mythological status. He can fix anything, and usually does, and he is heroic in his every day habits. They tinker in the garage when he does, just to be near him and imitate his every move. He makes everything more fun.<br />
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Days are long, but not long enough. Mornings come early, sometimes with the sunrise, because there is much to do, much to talk about, and usually a rush to breakfast or to crawl into mama's bed for a hug. Nights swoop in too quickly, and bedtime foils many plans.<br />
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There are moments when I have felt overwhelmed by what is to come, when this baby boy is born and the clock starts all over for us. There will be much joy and much hard work, but woven through it all will be this beautiful season of gathering- moments, experiences, time, and treasures. And Millie and Walter will teach him, becoming their own kind of heroes to his small world.<br />
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And for a just little while longer, I will answer to <i>Mama</i>, gathering every sound of it in my heart to hold and pull to my chest in wonder and gratefulness, so many years from now. erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-77399315277436772532019-07-18T12:34:00.000-05:002019-07-18T12:35:00.551-05:00Our Maternity Photographs<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UML14V4Haz5M5772Zz8ACELLkvy44YrhHfcOSUbqohgcpm3ehCtZ48LrUunCRpu2lluUgfstpf9pjTVxTTK7KjNxWHTEF6XJL0os8qQbEGqwSI5S_cae0GqUvLCMbzNBzxy8LOxeCuY/s1600/Perez%257Bmaternity%257DWEB_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1146" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UML14V4Haz5M5772Zz8ACELLkvy44YrhHfcOSUbqohgcpm3ehCtZ48LrUunCRpu2lluUgfstpf9pjTVxTTK7KjNxWHTEF6XJL0os8qQbEGqwSI5S_cae0GqUvLCMbzNBzxy8LOxeCuY/s640/Perez%257Bmaternity%257DWEB_0001.jpg" width="458" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{Photography by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KDarlingDesignPhotography/">kDarling Photography</a>}</td></tr>
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<i> <span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">“In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">Y</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">ou dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.”</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>― <span class="authorOrTitle" style="color: #333333; font-family: "lato" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-weight: bold;">Rumi</span></i></span></div>
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Two weeks earlier, I was running my hands over dresses at Goodwill. A soft dress seems like the most comfortable thing to wear these days. I pulled out a minty blue-green that was $5.99, and took it home with me that day.<br />
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Not long after, I was talking with our friend and family photographer, <a href="https://www.kdarlingphotography.net/">Kristin</a>. I say friend, not because she is who we call when I get the itch for updated family pictures, as I'm always desperate to capture the stage that Millie and Walter are in before it disappears forever. She's truly become a friend, because after ten photo sessions- beginning, funnily enough, with maternity pictures when I was pregnant with Walter- there's such an openness and comfortableness with her. She knows us so well, and always finds a way to show Millie and Walter exactly how they look through my own eyes. She also uses light in the most beautiful, indescribable way, and now that she shoots with film (a talent all its own), there seems to be this intangible magic there even more than before.<br />
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So earlier this month, I pulled the mint dress from the closet, gathered what I could find for Sky and the kids, and met her at a park down the street. The sun was at the perfect point as it began to set, the air was calm, and the glow and haze around us felt so appropriate.<br />
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When I saw the first photo come back from Kristin, I looked at Sky, and said, "Look at us. Look how happy we are." Because despite the physical and emotional toll this pregnancy has taken, we are so very, very happy- deeply n love with each other, with this new baby boy that we'll meet in mere weeks, and with the shape our family is taking. I could not imagine a more beautiful life, and now it's captured on film for us forever.<br />
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Thank you, Kristin. It means the world.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHaPxcOxZ-DOu9M3PhJ7C5T1iMgXpTw6JWvZ-lHao7FjlUT0JF6ArjunQgXU-EkVuUpDQM1KMRJi_4EArd_T-sP2Ov5hs1VQWfyT_Z878-VdtWoi3W3fyWzoM1tyC3_W3YU6w-KkQg2g/s1600/Perez%257Bmaternity%257DWEB_0036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1020" data-original-width="1200" height="540" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHaPxcOxZ-DOu9M3PhJ7C5T1iMgXpTw6JWvZ-lHao7FjlUT0JF6ArjunQgXU-EkVuUpDQM1KMRJi_4EArd_T-sP2Ov5hs1VQWfyT_Z878-VdtWoi3W3fyWzoM1tyC3_W3YU6w-KkQg2g/s640/Perez%257Bmaternity%257DWEB_0036.jpg" width="640" /></a>erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-59978448256715460812019-03-17T22:01:00.000-05:002019-03-17T22:01:23.214-05:00A Sudden Gift<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohoqdK6famrS8LHOWKDXZnpxwrTbEQe1yssZWK-t3T2C0f2Y66mnmI9r6pr9-WKVs6_uSs5gCttCOnolEnDFv1exQ8ENwwfiJQo6tmzorIaHIPITJPm7oiJqji4bLXn_If7Wx1J71Zgk/s1600/Perez%257BOctober2018%257DfWEB119065020007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohoqdK6famrS8LHOWKDXZnpxwrTbEQe1yssZWK-t3T2C0f2Y66mnmI9r6pr9-WKVs6_uSs5gCttCOnolEnDFv1exQ8ENwwfiJQo6tmzorIaHIPITJPm7oiJqji4bLXn_If7Wx1J71Zgk/s400/Perez%257BOctober2018%257DfWEB119065020007.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KDarlingDesignPhotography/">kDarling Photography</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>“Sometimes love is a surprise, an instant of recognition, </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>a sudden gift at a sudden moment that makes everything different from then on.” </i></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i>― <span class="authorOrTitle" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold;">Deb Caletti</span></i></div>
</span><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But for now, I am still so surprised by you, little one. I'll tell you how.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>~</b></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Sky and I kept the secret for a while. We had to get used to it ourselves (although he <i>insists</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>~</b></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
With all the uncertainty, I am sure of this one thing; you are a gift. And you will be so very, very loved.<br />
<br />
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-61626844805193069862018-10-09T22:55:00.000-05:002018-10-09T22:55:36.758-05:00Home Sweet Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifLcqbRsSOgpu3aWhLMy15VDFqRbVG2jxGZmtOBaFrWFDrmRkCEMlYPozNi5wL6fGbiUVX0jVCGR_QoWxkRp87gO3yQwM6lUu5YdbqnZ05pvyDPTgSNTSh37WRzn1W-WgkRIjXpEO5rAE/s1600/IMG_20180925_094442_309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1422" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifLcqbRsSOgpu3aWhLMy15VDFqRbVG2jxGZmtOBaFrWFDrmRkCEMlYPozNi5wL6fGbiUVX0jVCGR_QoWxkRp87gO3yQwM6lUu5YdbqnZ05pvyDPTgSNTSh37WRzn1W-WgkRIjXpEO5rAE/s400/IMG_20180925_094442_309.jpg" width="355" /></a></div>
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<i style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? </span></i></div>
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<i style="color: #181818; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back." </span></i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1069006.C_S_Lewis" style="color: #333333; text-decoration-line: none;" title="C.S. Lewis quotes">C.S. Lewis</a></span></i></div>
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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 <i>house</i>."<br />
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Neither of us thought we would, or at least as soon. <i>"Soon"</i> 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.<br />
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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 <u><i>liked</i></u> most of them. We were settling, and I knew it, but we could make it work and be grateful.<br />
<br />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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Tonight, though, I have to disagree with them. Home is right here, at last.<br />
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-44398171390086543382018-02-05T21:11:00.000-06:002018-02-06T09:29:13.095-06:00A Boy in Khaki, a Girl in Lace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPkJ0CacSSU8-CQRsBV50ar9rsAzLtl0R8fQmFdpng4niseQe71yCN1S5Pu388ItbcNvXudQXyrxUtfoVxCViauT8oeG0_J_Gxhsh-LMxVwu4u6Pok0a1dlldq1lSfHyaOFhgT7X_v_2I/s1600/IMG_20170809_095037_347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1336" data-original-width="1600" height="532" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPkJ0CacSSU8-CQRsBV50ar9rsAzLtl0R8fQmFdpng4niseQe71yCN1S5Pu388ItbcNvXudQXyrxUtfoVxCViauT8oeG0_J_Gxhsh-LMxVwu4u6Pok0a1dlldq1lSfHyaOFhgT7X_v_2I/s640/IMG_20170809_095037_347.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The same old sweethearts, the same old place</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">A boy in khaki, a girl in lace</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">He bends to kiss her, she lifts her face</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The boy in khaki, the girl in lace</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tenderly he sighs, "I will come back to you"</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh my darling, please do," she replied</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so we leave them in fond embrace</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The boy in khaki, the girl in lace</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">{<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p8S5uacIn_U">Performed by Dinah Shore here</a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esHu7-QmxYc">Bing Crosby here</a>, and written by Charles Newman & Allie Wrubel}</span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span></span>Not long ago<span style="background-color: white;">, 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.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> 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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">{homecoming photos graciously taken by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Ryannkeslerphotography/" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: transparent; color: #0066cc; font-family: &quot; font-size: 12.8px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Ryann Kesler Photography</a>}</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; display: inline; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #004000; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #222222;">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 <a href="http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/2016/09/day-in-and-day-out.html">the morning he left</a>, 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.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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 <i>right now</i>." They turned.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">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. <i>Was it really happening? </i>My heart swelled.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then, all joy broke loose. He was <i>home</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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 <i>done</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">His boots came off by the door. He wouldn't need them for a while.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Welcome home, Sky. It's nice to have you back again.</span></div>
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erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-25291565035897930232017-07-14T23:57:00.000-05:002017-07-14T23:57:38.541-05:00We Won the War<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">“And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.” </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
― <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4026.Pablo_Neruda" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: none;">Pablo Neruda</a></div>
</span><br />
He's been sending boxes home.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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- <i>thank you</i>. You humbled me. It truly made a world of difference on the bad days.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHV1oc5BZQpaOkodAZq7PyWHUyIaDvuBYShkokHYtX2tnxzUq60qHy2mqH7P5dWoM1_W4u0lCUh_Xq3O1Cy8HNxabHMsNuL8sRBcOJMihiJWLjiQn0onc5WEnxcej2TFLW9YJnVaRAGcE/s1600/IMG_20170702_175725_116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHV1oc5BZQpaOkodAZq7PyWHUyIaDvuBYShkokHYtX2tnxzUq60qHy2mqH7P5dWoM1_W4u0lCUh_Xq3O1Cy8HNxabHMsNuL8sRBcOJMihiJWLjiQn0onc5WEnxcej2TFLW9YJnVaRAGcE/s400/IMG_20170702_175725_116.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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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.<br />
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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.)<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRE7k32Ku2ebUJt9cKfZ6aIbr5rPAHXBAkOb5G4Arcjs23X8cfr8XOxLFCEblfWzZIkow1Tg8TDlZZfJThRSV2dnlt2W9FWKxTRa2-3MkT0yhSXPz4W-vJE3xfOHUMfBwFLef_XH7Bans/s1600/Resized_20170616_144121.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRE7k32Ku2ebUJt9cKfZ6aIbr5rPAHXBAkOb5G4Arcjs23X8cfr8XOxLFCEblfWzZIkow1Tg8TDlZZfJThRSV2dnlt2W9FWKxTRa2-3MkT0yhSXPz4W-vJE3xfOHUMfBwFLef_XH7Bans/s400/Resized_20170616_144121.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo credit: my dad}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEi8YSq93PNmb4i8ahxpMAvxQsX-1B3owNVoqU1uiuUF5jg9acMbPerBkdN29b3AlndaKR5zGQw5t7zBYiYLHdlFYMnd2vRuQDNTx9-ra7SjWqo_8GKcRpwYI0P1bdflcmKGQvPkKV0Y/s1600/IMG_20170709_144143_527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAEi8YSq93PNmb4i8ahxpMAvxQsX-1B3owNVoqU1uiuUF5jg9acMbPerBkdN29b3AlndaKR5zGQw5t7zBYiYLHdlFYMnd2vRuQDNTx9-ra7SjWqo_8GKcRpwYI0P1bdflcmKGQvPkKV0Y/s320/IMG_20170709_144143_527.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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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. "<i>We won the war</i>."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_NzDBQSaezYd1ceUXLkBp3oWhSiyL1Lt3PN5lNqU4ZSHlMvpr7LS2iWCCaMz8-r2hHFzZSe30lYwPQUJbufvk9KR7g6dT4ll9zx9aRZMnGiQ7d-Kv2FSq0rSTPWJA-K1oVeKbmUMRRs/s1600/IMG_20170708_111317_286.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie_NzDBQSaezYd1ceUXLkBp3oWhSiyL1Lt3PN5lNqU4ZSHlMvpr7LS2iWCCaMz8-r2hHFzZSe30lYwPQUJbufvk9KR7g6dT4ll9zx9aRZMnGiQ7d-Kv2FSq0rSTPWJA-K1oVeKbmUMRRs/s320/IMG_20170708_111317_286.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3zCawhD-TtiIWaz7mNe88YXjKFegwp_p8Q9hyphenhyphenf_VMt-fHpt68KNtO0FjFFbogERgrfmdjQ9cuf6ZLxB_VafXj_ToIXr7nWdlsApjm3sHAswH6RuBIU8FCxEaUuTTmidHQvb9jaOMJquk/s1600/2017-06-08+08.50.57+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3zCawhD-TtiIWaz7mNe88YXjKFegwp_p8Q9hyphenhyphenf_VMt-fHpt68KNtO0FjFFbogERgrfmdjQ9cuf6ZLxB_VafXj_ToIXr7nWdlsApjm3sHAswH6RuBIU8FCxEaUuTTmidHQvb9jaOMJquk/s320/2017-06-08+08.50.57+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-37405810157862743602017-06-20T21:29:00.000-05:002017-06-20T21:31:26.493-05:00The Buttons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjro8tMrz0p4IkSSowwsiIQo7ftJFieEAeZBirM9fEbiAwXA_jS86qmIG8JN8xawdq0Ij_K-o92clp_yGw-TtRB4rsV-yg72a-ZKY_lsuDUe9vVpveggQgND2Io3DE_adBve5OttSMqbhU/s1600/2017-06-20+08.25.57+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjro8tMrz0p4IkSSowwsiIQo7ftJFieEAeZBirM9fEbiAwXA_jS86qmIG8JN8xawdq0Ij_K-o92clp_yGw-TtRB4rsV-yg72a-ZKY_lsuDUe9vVpveggQgND2Io3DE_adBve5OttSMqbhU/s400/2017-06-20+08.25.57+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">"She was feeling the pressure of the world outside </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">and she wanted to see him and feel his presence beside her </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">and be reassured that she was doing the right thing after all." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">— </span><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/3190.F_Scott_Fitzgerald" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; text-align: left; text-decoration-line: none;" title="F. Scott Fitzgerald quotes">F. Scott Fitzgerald</a></div>
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Sometimes, when they ask how I am, I wish I could explain to them about the buttons.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQST-fdI5SKTTczhtBHwvMKmV35ciR8Jg4oDt-VeIMUtwtCkuG5p2A6A1pp5SoLUDDBTDd6kCxzx83H67LD-kn8_CxLJaXFsw2LN6C6g6WLs-m300gfV5ffxbJnPf2X5qv2202YhdbYU/s1600/2017-05-18+07.11.42+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQST-fdI5SKTTczhtBHwvMKmV35ciR8Jg4oDt-VeIMUtwtCkuG5p2A6A1pp5SoLUDDBTDd6kCxzx83H67LD-kn8_CxLJaXFsw2LN6C6g6WLs-m300gfV5ffxbJnPf2X5qv2202YhdbYU/s400/2017-05-18+07.11.42+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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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 <b><i>I</i></b> 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 <i>experience</i> 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.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUshe7Xo-TROVaVJVqpErOPpChy27oN7x-ySxwLJjZVXogoT3aAJYcuW6W-iDrceodUB_bs7FXoZYZqJ_YmySJInSb9NoH7DaNYzeDZ4nWr0Td-cSIC8kJ5r3FP0-7_d5o6PLmPqTPmU0/s1600/2017-05-18+07.12.52+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUshe7Xo-TROVaVJVqpErOPpChy27oN7x-ySxwLJjZVXogoT3aAJYcuW6W-iDrceodUB_bs7FXoZYZqJ_YmySJInSb9NoH7DaNYzeDZ4nWr0Td-cSIC8kJ5r3FP0-7_d5o6PLmPqTPmU0/s400/2017-05-18+07.12.52+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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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.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-60126355918277279542017-04-26T12:44:00.001-05:002017-04-26T12:44:59.044-05:00Hope of a Harvest<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8B5eR1RpwZsE5OKGVKQPdA94oRBEetaMjMMizEQ-hy1VpjvE550somcb8VALJ2zN0rMxPXXTW1mzj1qF3NRbTGWCguwHQPVrk-u2J3wBSMo4fBfqgXLpJuIXVw03-VWSOExzQHAkoOas/s1600/2017-04-26+12.18.52+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8B5eR1RpwZsE5OKGVKQPdA94oRBEetaMjMMizEQ-hy1VpjvE550somcb8VALJ2zN0rMxPXXTW1mzj1qF3NRbTGWCguwHQPVrk-u2J3wBSMo4fBfqgXLpJuIXVw03-VWSOExzQHAkoOas/s400/2017-04-26+12.18.52+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">"Love.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
I have forgotten your face, I no longer</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Remember your hands; how did your lips</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Feel on mine? [...]</div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
I have forgotten your eyes.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
My vague memory of you. [...]</div>
</span><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;">I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Glimpse you in every window."</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/4026.Pablo_Neruda" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration-line: none;" title="Pablo Neruda quotes">Pablo Neruda</a></div>
</span><br />
The crop sprayer, looking like a overgrown bug ready to devour little cars, moved slowly down the street, and we dutifully took note as Illinoisans should. John Deere green seems to sprout up everywhere this time of year. Without a thought, I remarked to anyone listening how noble it is to be a farmer. How hard working they are, with dirt under their nails, calloused hands, beat up bib overalls, and a hat advertising some insecticide brand. How they never really know, from year to year, what the end result will be. Their entire profession is based on faith and hope. If heavy rains or sudden drought destroy half their fields, then that corn or those soybeans they expected to glean is lost. Other years, they may have an abundant harvest, with shimmering golds thrown high into the combine and poured into tall, lonely silos. Millie said, "It must be sad to be a farmer." "No," I told her, "Some years are good and some are not, but they have one of the most important jobs." I listed off a dozen ways we all benefit from their work, and both kids chimed in with more examples. We saw a rusty tractor bumping through some acreage after that, and watched in quiet reverence.<br />
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A few days before, I glanced out at the endless miles of farmland flickering past our car. We were on the way home from an afternoon out and a McDonald's dinner. At the shop, a lady smiled and told me she loved my lipstick, a light berry shade to contrast with the black I'm always drawn to wear. For the briefest moment, I wondered if I should tell her. Should I describe the four hours it took me to move from my bed to the closet, the overwhelming feeling of picking out a shirt, or the fact that I halfheartedly reached for the closest lip pencil and mascara, and prayed no one I knew would see me? The last few weeks have taken all of my strength, and the fragments that are left are not worth much. I pulled out my debit card, thanked her, and silently resolved to compliment people more often, because it might be the only anchor that holds them to a good moment that day.<br />
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I spent this afternoon readying our balcony for all the newness that spring ushers in; moving the potted hens and chickens to our little table, pinching off the crumbing brown leaves to make room for bight green buds. I added a bit of soil to them, showered them in cool water, and peered closely at them as if they would grow before my eyes. There are trees bursting into bloom everywhere in town, the breeze carrying their sugary scents through the air. The daffodils have appeared already, and the grass is looking lush- so many signs that spring is here. We're confident enough, even here in the Midwest, to put up our snow boots and wool coats, trade them in for trenches and rain jackets, and walk the fine line between scarves and sandals. It's a back and forth dance every day, but everything is thawing, getting brighter, and becoming alive.<br />
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This spring is different for me. I hold my breath wait for the smallest green dots of cornstalks to appear in rows in the tilled brown-black earth, because I know they'll still be there when he gets home, and they'll be taller than all of us. He and I have a few fond memories of those fields from what seems like ages ago, zooming through old country roads in the little red car he bought when he came home from Afghanistan, both of us intoxicated with the new life we had together, still young enough to feel careless and have a million stories to tell without repeating anything. (If you had told us we'd be introduced to a little girl named Millie a year from those rides, we'd never have believed you.)<br />
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The three of us here at home are getting weary. The days have been getting longer, the nights peppered with wake-ups and melt-downs, and easy tasks feel monumental at times. The depression that follows me through life, sometimes walking several paces behind, has caught up now and nearly matches me step for step at times. Millie and Walter ask more questions, about dates and plans and all things unanswerable. Millie cries because he'll likely miss her birthday, and writes him somber letters. We've spent some evenings, long past bedtime, sitting side by side on the floor in my room, backs against the wall. I've stroked her curls as she tells me her heart, and I try to make her believe what I can't. Walter recently carried around a picture of our family most of a day, sitting with me and studying it for a while before asking, "Can Daddy see me looking at him?" The teddy bear he plays every night has some background noise from the store we recorded it in, and he once wondered aloud if his daddy actually sounded like that, or if he sounds like we do. Memories are getting hazy, time is stretching, twisting, and turning, and we are tired.<br />
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But spring is insistent. The sun warms our bodies and sweeps us along through the calendar's pages. Soon, there will be swim lessons, popsicles, sidewalk chalk, sweat, and sweet tea. Walter's blonde hair will look even blonder against his skinny tan body, and a few more pretty freckles will be sprinkled over Millie's nose and cheeks. The hope that we have forgotten will climb over our hearts in tall, winding, overgrown vines, until we can't see anything else. Maybe this will have all been a bad dream in the end. We will sprint through vivid daylight, through the firefly laden evenings, through the perfect sunsets over nearly-ripe fields and the deep, damp nights with cicadas calling. We'll run and leave the heartache, the time lost, and the trials in the dust, and wait breathlessly until an airplane touches the tarmac amid blinking lights and tears. We'll wait until he rounds the corner and the fuzzy memories become crystal clear, tangible, kissable, and so sweet. We'll load welcome home signs and heavy green bags into the trunk.<br />
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And on the way home, at least one of us is bound to remark, "Isn't the corn so tall now? It's already nearly time for the harvest."erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-54905629360957974542017-03-19T23:22:00.000-05:002017-03-19T23:27:19.049-05:00You Would Have Loved It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 10.5pt; text-align: center;">"The pleasure of
remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to
remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory
itself, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;">as if the things we'd
done were less real and important [...]" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 15.75pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 10.5pt;">— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1406384.John_Green" title="John Green quotes"><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica" , "sans-serif"; text-decoration: none;">John Green</span></b></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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It's a little silly to feel broken over a bumblebee purse. Things like this always sneak up on me.</div>
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Millie has a bright red, sequined frame bag on a chain. It's a little purse that is usually involved in any dress up endeavors (both with her and with Walter). But one day at an overpriced children's clothing store at the mall, she found a denim one with lace or sparkles, maybe unicorns. She begged and pleaded. But a six year old doesn't need a purse, in my opinion, so we left the store without it, her girl's heart bruised from mourning what she would never have. And then, the next day, while she was busy at her homeschool group, I stopped by a resale shop, saw a little patent leather bag with a daisy, and decided it was worth the dollar price tag. When she opened the door and saw it, she clasped it to her chest, took it with her everywhere, and was quite the fancy lady. That was, until Walter scribbled all over her prized possession with a ballpoint pen.</div>
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Then, tonight, we browsed the Goodwill aisles when I spotted it- a bumblebee purse. It couldn't have been cuter. Bursting with more excitement than most adults should have over a bumblebee bag, I proudly presented it to Millie. "Look," I gushed to her, "Isn't this the best? You could fit twice as many things in this one! And it's just right for summer! You could even bring it to church!" (Why she would need to, I had no idea. The words were spilling out.) She looked at me skeptically. "It's okay," she began, "but...I don't know. It's for a little kid."I stared at her in shock. Never mind that I didn't want her to have one at all. Suddenly, I <i>needed</i> her to have this one. $2.99 to preserve a smidgen of childhood? Absolutely. And whether it was for her or for myself (<i>okay, we all know it was for me</i>), she finally consented that we should probably take it home. </div>
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I thought about it all evening, and why I was so manic and insistent about something so ridiculous. I realized that I was slightly scared. Any day now, she wouldn't agree to take that bag home even if it did mean something to me. Sometimes I forget, in the quiet day in and day out of our small lives, she and Walter are growing up. Every second is farther away from the littleness, and closer to big kids who don't have time for silly things like a bee shaped purse. </div>
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Ah. There it is. Just when I think I've managed to be angry and sad about every part of this deployment, I find another layer. Another reason he should be here, not there. Another small way to grieve.</div>
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They were both sad and confused when I had to let them know he will miss their birthdays this year. And really, he will never much know Millie, the six year old and Walter, the three year old. They will mostly exist in photos and grainy video calls, these parts of their stories and personalities witnessed only by me. When he's home later, I know I'll begin laughing at a memory only to realize it's one we don't share. He and I will have aged a year's time, but it will matter little- maybe another wrinkle here or there. Yet a year of their very few years feels like all the time in the world. They've outgrown so many shoes and pairs of jeans, and we keep etching new marks on the growth chart on the wall. Millie no longer stumbling on the bigger words in her stories, and reads to Walter with ease, and he has new habits and loves and fears. Sky will meet new people when he returns, people who didn't exist when he left.</div>
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It's such an odd ache, desperately wanting time to move forward to the day he comes home, but hoping it will slow down so they stay small a little longer. There is no way to balance it, so there's a constant battle in my heart. If only it was the end of summer. And if only summer would take longer to get here, because they're already so much bigger than when he left.</div>
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We took a short walk after naptime, soaking in the sunshine and pondering when the dandelions would return. At the little creek down the road, we saw that the tall, brown cattails we've passed every day had turned white, and were ripe for the picking. Millie cautiously stepped down to the edge of where grass meets mud, and snapped off a few reeds, one for each of us. I watched as they stroked the velvet soft outside before pinching a part of fluff and watching it sail into the air all around them. The bits of feathery whiteness floated up into the blue, slowly and then suddenly gone, as if they had never existed upright and still in the water moments before.</div>
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Sometimes, the proof we have of the past is just as tangible. Maybe it's merely to say, "It's not here anymore. But when it was, it was beautiful. The breeze danced away with it all, and now there's not a trace. And I wish I could describe how that looked. </div>
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You would have loved it."</div>
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-87198837780764303602017-01-26T21:59:00.000-06:002017-01-26T21:59:56.055-06:00A Little Sad, But Mostly Okay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">“I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">but I think of you always in those intervals.”</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
― <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/24508.Salvador_Plascencia" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Salvador Plascencia</a>, <span id="quote_book_link_43603">The People of Paper</span><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></div>
</span><br />
Sometimes, when it's been a particularity rough day, I try to picture it, to imagine the whole crazy scene- a weary husband comes home from a day at the office or the factory. He dutifully, slowly tells his wife that he has to move to another country for a year. His boss told him to, and there is little time to prepare now. Anything his boss wants, his boss gets.<br />
<br />
But it's okay, right? That's his job, and he signed up for it, and so did she for that matter. There is no need to get upset. Just be proud, set your jaw, and embrace the suck. Cue the canned laughter.<br />
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My feelings since Sky left haven't really calmed down. I'm still a bit heartbroken and angry. I often feel, though, like I'm expected to be a little sad, but mostly okay. And sometimes that feels unbelievably strange to me. There are times when I <i>am</i> a little sad but mostly okay; after all, when you have kids, there is no luxury for all of your emotion, no time to comprehend it all until they're in bed. But also? I have had days where I've cried through every moment they weren't awake. Where I've had to run to the bathroom to let it out for a moment before pulling myself together to make a box of macaroni or load them into the car for Sonic the third time in one week.<br />
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When you marry someone, it isn't because you can't handle life on your own. Most of us do what we need to do to get by as adults, and most of us have lived alone for at least a small part of our lives. You marry them because you love that person. Because you <i>want</i> to spend time with them. And then the military calls one day to tell you that you can't. And you're supposed to be okay. A little sad, but mostly okay. I occasionally wonder how often people think of what it would feel like to have their spouse leave and get a new mailing address. Of course, I can't imagine the many other scenarios that people have had to face in their own lives, either. So many battles we'll never know.<br />
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War is incredibly abstract. From a distance, the military is what politicians praise (while secretly slashing their benefits) and people cheer for or blame. It's something we are used to seeing on the news, flashes of uniforms and armored vehicles and bombs. None of it can feel very real, though, because if that face they showed on the screen happened to be someone's husband, brother, son, or father, it would hurt too much to fathom.<br />
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The problem is, they do belong to someone, to many someones. I do my best to keep the TV off, but Walter saw a magazine cover with a soldier on it at the grocery store today. He exclaimed excitedly, "Mama, it's like Daddy! It's an Army guy!" I nodded, distracted by unloading gallons of milk in the checkout lane. "Why does he have a gun?" he asked. I stared at his sweet face. They know so little about it all, and thank goodness. To them, Daddy is a hero, probably someone a little larger than life, and someone we spend a lot of time missing.<br />
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We feel his absence <u>every single day</u>.<br />
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In the morning, he's not there. There isn't a morning kiss, a lazy Saturday with orange rolls to be shared, or a reason to brew a full pot of coffee. There isn't someone else getting them ready for church or running down the road to the next town over for doughnuts as a treat.<br />
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At dinner, he's already been asleep for hours there. No sound of the door opening, the cheers because he's home, or someone to compliment me on my (lately barley existent) cooking a full meal. No one else helps Walter with his bath, or does stories with funny voices, or oohs and ahhs over something Millie did in school that day.<br />
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At night, it hits all of us the hardest. There are whispered, broken confessions. "I miss Daddy." They each press a paw on their teddy bears that play a little message he recorded, and we stay silent in the dark to listen to his muffled voice say he misses us and he'll see us soon. When I crawl into bed, a day's worth of exhaustion or grief or anger overwhelms my body, running through me. Then I hear the familiar ding on my phone because it's early morning there, and he's saying he loves me before he heads off to PT.<br />
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And I think about him, and what it must be like there. A landscape totally unfamiliar. The droning on and on at meetings. The coming home at night to what home is temporarily. The same uniform day after maddening day. The time apart from two small souls who think the world of him.<br />
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We're still fine here. The kids still have three meals daily, still have a ball spending time at grandpa's house, and we always manage to get through the day and begin a new one over and over. Sometimes, we have fun, exciting times, or at least afternoons that can distract us. But I can't pretend it feels normal to have a fourth of our family thousands of miles away for a year. (Thank God it doesn't.) The part about deployment getting easier as it goes doesn't exactly feel true in the least, however. We have the days it hurts less and the days it hurts just as much as the time we said goodbye. Maybe it's the expectations, or maybe it's realizing how pathetic I sound, but I'm embarrassed to feel this much, this often. I'm painfully aware that I should be over it by now.<br />
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So when they asked me how I am doing, I pause and then give whatever answer I think is supposed to be appropriate. To this blog, I write infinitely too much. To Sky, I probably say more than I should. To my parents, I tell the truth. To my close friends, I say it's hard. And to everyone else, I say something about hanging in there.<br />
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A little sad, but mostly okay.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-66173192112856194512016-12-08T13:14:00.000-06:002016-12-08T13:16:14.631-06:00The Good In It All<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photo by <a href="http://themidwestpress.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-good-in-it-all.html">kdarling photography</a>}</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">"I believe that words are strong, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">that they can overwhelm what we fear </span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">when fear seems more awful than life is good." </span><br />
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;">— </span><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/8650.Andrew_Solomon" style="color: #333333; font-family: lato, "helvetica neue", helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" title="Andrew Solomon quotes">Andrew Solomon</a><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought writing would come easier to me once he left, but it hasn't. I've focused a lot on the feelings that hurt. And maybe that's just because there are a lot of those. When Millie crept into my room crying after I'd been away for only a couple of hours, it's one of a million reminders that life right now isn't normal. It's a lot more fragile, with a lot more grace needed and a lot more hope required.</span></div>
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I never imagined I would be an Army wife. <span style="font-family: inherit;">I've never even been overly patriotic, really- I do think our country is so blessed, but it's also very flawed. Lately, though? Seeing a flag gently waving in someone's yard is akin to having them play our song. Politicians love to talk, but the real, tangible support comes from Betty at the post office, who stamps my customs forms every week. It comes from people at church and at our homeschooling group who have offered to babysit if I need a break. It comes from my mom, who lets me cry, and hung a blue star flag in her window all the way in the mountains of Oregon. It comes from my dad, who keeps me laughing and watches the kids on a weekly basis, so I can clean the house and lug groceries up the stairs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>A few weeks ago, the head librarian in the next town over called, excitedly telling me that Millie and Walter were in the little weekly paper there. We had visited a Veterans Day presentation; a man looked at the kids and said, "Do you know the hardest thing your Daddy has to do? He has to go to bed every night without giving your mother a kiss. But he does it because he loves you and he loves this country." And so she texted me the page. She told me to let her know if we needed anything. Then she confided that her brother had served in Iraq and Afghanistan. So many people tell me that now. It's like a secret code of, "<i>I understand</i>." And they do, better than most people.<br />
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The real support doesn't just come from a military wife or family member, though. I'm learning that it comes from everyone who has been good to our family. Friends of mine who have never even met Sky are sending him care packages. It's so humbling to me. Family members have emailed or texted to check on us. Military spouses who are dealing with their own husbands being away have prayed for us. A new friend has a husband with a civilian job that constantly takes him overseas, and she prefaced her words with, "Of course, it's nothing like what you are going through." But it is- so much so. Because the pain of missing someone is something nearly everyone has felt, whether it's for a few days or the rest of life on this earth.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today, I had a stranger (via the internet, of course) tell me to "be an adult, suck it up, buttercup", etc. when I commented on an article about the negative effects of deployments on families. Never mind that it was a scientific study and not someone's random opinion. What bothered me, on an already low day, was that someone I don't even know thought it was okay to chastise me for being sad because my husband is gone. I think one of the ugliest, worst things a human being can do is dismiss someone else's sadness, to downplay their experience and their emotions, or even go so far as to lecture them for it. But I guess on the internet, it doesn't matter if it's a deployment, or cancer, or losing a loved one- anything is fair game for a vicious attack.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Yet on this same morning of discouragement, I opened my door and found a package from an amazing milspouse friend on the other side of the country. She has quietly sent kindness after kindness to our mailbox over the years, with all sorts of great hand-me-downs for the kids and notes for me. Minutes after reading those words full of hate, I was able to open her card and read words of love. Words that soothed and put things in perspective. Words that actually matter. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've had more than one Starbucks card show up for me since Sky left, a sugary and caffeinated balm for those days that it's hard to keep going (<i>praise the Lord for Starbucks, amen</i>). I have had countless people remind me that they are praying for him and for all of us. I've been grateful to our sweet photographer friend who snapped shots of just us three for our Christmas card this year. We attended Sky's unit Christmas party last week, and the commander, leaders, and their wives shook my hand, and told me they're always there if we need anything. The outpouring of empathy has been nothing less than God-sent. </span>When someone simply acknowledges that it's hard- hard for him to be away, and hard for us to miss him- they are really saying thank you. They're saying they appreciate what he is doing.<br />
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Some days, that makes it feel a little more worth it. But even on the days it doesn't feel very worth it at all, those kindnesses, large and small, help me get through this for one more hour, one more day, one more week, one more month. I look at the deployment calendar every night on my phone, hoping somehow that fifty days have gone by since I last checked. It's still a day at a time. The good in it all is what makes it possible to wake up the next morning and begin again.</div>
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-86255756197539922272016-10-19T13:31:00.000-05:002016-10-21T00:55:26.481-05:00The Moon<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">"And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">They danced by the light of the moon." </span><br />
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left;">— </span><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/142.Edward_Lear" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Edward Lear quotes">Edward Lear</a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was the last flight. I was on my way home from spending seventy two hours with Sky before he would board a plane for a different hemisphere. The trip was somewhat of a surprise, something that we were aware of at our last goodbye, but doubtful to actually happen. We filled those seventy two hours with lots of good food, a couple trips to the movies, zooming around that Texas town in our rental Corolla, shopping and laughing and trying to forget. He looked so handsome in his new uniform, and it felt like a rare and holy </span>privilege<span style="font-family: inherit;"> to see my husband, to hold his hand. </span>We didn't do anything monumental- there is no dramatic Romeo and Juliet story to tell. But we went to bed and woke up next to each other a few more times. We talked more about the deployment, though we had no more information than we did before. And we were mostly able to push the inevitable away until the drive to the airport. <span style="font-family: inherit;">Then we said goodbye again, knowing it was the last time we'd lay eyes on each other until this deployment ends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The plane took off late, and it was dusk by the time we reached altitude. Dallas looked like a breathtaking, deep navy gown, with a hundred thousand sequins of silver, of gold, of unnatural oranges and shiny blues. I never cared much for Texas, but every city is a different kind of lady at night, and all of them beautiful, even as the lights blurred with the tears I held back. I watched as they scattered, growing farther and farther apart, until the ground was </span>enveloped<span style="font-family: inherit;"> in darkness. I sighed and looked around me, the dim cabin bulbs giving </span>glimpses<span style="font-family: inherit;"> of the </span>passengers<span style="font-family: inherit;"> nearby.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A middle aged man on the other side of the aisle was grading math tests and reading through papers, while the man sitting beside me watched a movie, using headphones to dull the sound of the roaring engine of our plane. Two white-</span>haired<span style="font-family: inherit;"> men in front of me, one with some sort of heavy accent, were talking loudly, having int</span>ellectual<span style="font-family: inherit;"> conversations full of complexities, when one of them turned his head to the window and let out a soft "</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">ahh</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">". "It's quite a sight," he said of the full moon, glowing brightly as we seemed to follow it through the sky. The other man, still itching for something scientific to say, replied that it is a psychological affect, an optical illusion- that when the moon is near the horizon, we have something to compare it to, like the skyline, and it is so large, it feels like it could collide with the earth. But high above, it is alone, and therefore looks smaller. I smiled to myself a little at the poetry of what he had said. It seemed like a beautiful metaphor for something, but I was too tried to think of what it was, and my thoughts were occupied with other things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only a few hours before, I was in Sky's arms, and now, I was alone again. It was a different sort of goodbye in a different town. Soldiers were everywhere we went- the military had infiltrated every part of it decades ago. The post itself was a little like another world. A world with rules, with flag poles and helicopters, with customs and traditions, with pride, and with so many farewells.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And ours was one of them. Wives and girlfriends hugged the ones they came to see, and went through security with red eyes, all of us saying similar things to the men who were leaving, most crying openly like I did. One small child cried "daddy!" as they were separated in the TSA line. A woman nearby remarked how awful it was. I had nothing to say. Sky was already gone, and I couldn't pretend for another second that he would be coming home soon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's hard to reconcile being by his side just a short time ago, when I'm back into my regular life here, and he's back into his there. He's in his uniform again, with the new boots he bought to replace to ones he wore as he walked through Afghanistan's sandy valleys. I am home with Millie and Walter, falling into the same routine as always, and staying up until the early hours of the morning because it hurts too much to go to sleep. I still think about the deployment every minute of every day. I think about Christmas a lot. And I think about how many days we have, how many cycles of this waking up and going to bed I will have to do, how </span>insurmountable<span style="font-family: inherit;"> it feels to spend so long without our normal life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know how we can do this year. I don't want to do it, and he doesn't either. And I wish there was a way to be together tonight. But the only way I've ever found to get through the most difficult times is simply to do so because there is no other choice; it frightens me and comforts me at the same time. The necessity of the things that have to be done, the kids that need me, the house that needs cleaned- there is no running away, no alternative. Emerson said, "Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could." That, I think, is how we will get by in these days to come.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The emotions, worries, and tears were overwhelming last night. I closed my eyes, and I thought about Sky, and I thought about new sandy places his new boots will tread upon. And then I thought about the moon, and poetry, and </span>metaphors. I thought about how maybe it was a picture for how small I feel, and how large and looming this pain can be. But maybe, I thought (or more accurately, hoped), this deployment looks so enormous next to the landscape of my life, and the quiet daily bits that make it up. If I can hold it up to the night, though, and tell myself that the sun will come back again, maybe it will shrink to a size I can carry. Maybe someday, there will be a gentle glow around what was once harsh and sharp.</div>
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And maybe, when he and I next stand with our fingers entwined, watching Millie and Walter and talking of these days in the past tense, the moon will be just the right size again, and beautiful, and the world will be right again, too.</div>
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-33389754042255937202016-09-25T13:36:00.001-05:002016-09-25T13:36:44.694-05:00Day In and Day Out<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">"And when they ask us what we're doing, you can say, We're remembering. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;">That's where we'll win out in the long run." </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1630.Ray_Bradbury" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" title="Ray Bradbury quotes">Ray Bradbury</a></div>
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When I heard the alarm that morning, and saw him roll to turn it off, my heart sank. We looked into each other's eyes for a minute, saying nothing because there was nothing that could be said. I watched him gather his bags and put on that familiar uniform, and he watched me put my makeup on as if it wouldn't be ruined by tears soon. It's an indescribable moment when we closed the front door, knowing he wouldn't cross the threshold again for months, knowing that I would open that door an hour later feeling more lonely than I ever have in my entire life.<br />
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The airport is within view of our home, so the drive there took mere seconds. The violent pinks and reds of the sunrise competed with the hazy glow of the terminal lights. He carried his heavy luggage to security, and we stood near the escalators, holding each other. All I could think to say was, "I don't want to do this." We hugged as long as we could, and I tried to memorize the way it felt to wrap my arms around his shoulders, to soak up the scent of his cologne, to brush my hand over his hair that was cut shorter than usual. I reached for his hand one last time, and felt the warm metal of his wedding ring. And then he had to turn away and go. That split second held more heartbreak than I could have ever imagined. I stood there, feeling paralyzed and ill. A lady who had been behind us at the ticket counter approached me and asked if I needed a hug. "I'll be praying for him," she said gently. In a matter of minutes, he stood on the other side of security, metal detectors and TSA agents and walls of glass separating us. I saw him sink into a chair, looking defeated.<br />
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Finally, I had to leave. The plane, visible from the car, began to sound its loud engines. A weight settled on my shoulders, and a kind of panic was washing over me in waves. I turned my head to stare into the blinding sunlight peeking over the cornfields, the rest of the sky still believing it was night, and gathered a breath. It was hard to accept it all as reality, and hard to think that this happens all over the country every day. Tears were rolling down my cheeks before I had a chance to stop them.<br />
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Suddenly, I remembered every detail of that early morning eight years ago, when I watched my brother tie his boots in the hotel room. We drove in the dark to where the buses were waiting, where a few families were still saying their goodbyes, where dozens of soldiers (including Sky, although I was unaware then) loaded their duffels below and climbed aboard the bus. I remember staring at their silhouettes, so similar and yet so different, feeling such tenseness, such ache, such hope. As the buses left the smoke behind and turned onto the next street, then the next, then the highway, I wondered how my feet were standing still when I wanted nothing more than to chase them the whole way, to stop them somehow. There was a sickness in my heart that didn't leave for a whole year, until I saw those buses drive through the summer heat and park next to a high school football field, worn soldiers and dirty bags spilling out, my brother and Sky home safe and sound.<br />
<br />
Those days were so long. These few have been so long, too. I get stuck in the smallest of decisions. I hesitated, if for only a moment, to throw away his half empty pop can left in the car. I opened the glove box and his sunglasses tumbled out, and it felt like I'd been punched in the gut over something so small. Every song, every couple walking by, every time that Millie and Walter bring him up- all of it is a sort of sensory overload that cripples me. These are the times I think of civilian families. I wonder if they think about the last load of laundry we do with their clothes, or how we hesitate to wash that sweatshirt that still smells like them. Do they think about how quiet it is at night, or what it feels like to know it's unlikely we're able to talk to our spouse when we want to or need to? Do they think about how the kids feel? Do they think about what it's like to get ready for church on Sundays alone, to have to think about cooking meals for the kids when the instinct is to ball up on the couch and cry, to spend the days and nights in a house that looks essentially the same, but no longer feels like home?<br />
<br />
When he texted me on his last day of work and told me he was on his way, I cried knowing that I wouldn't hear that again in a very long time. It's strange to be so connected to someone and suddenly know nothing about where they are, what they're doing, who they meet, or what they see. Our days are so separate, so different now. The common things that we would normally discuss or laugh over fade away, and they're replaced by questions. It's a split screen life; while he texts me about his flight, while I see pictures of my husband with ACUs and a weapon, I'm sitting in the congregation at church, and they're singing. How do I pull my mind to my here and now when all I can think of is his?<br />
<br />
These days will be survived. Some of them will be easier than this day, and some of them will be harder, but we'll live through each one of them until the next one begins, and do that over and over until deployment finally ends. Until then, I'll be living my life in halves. Half of me in the present, doing what needs to be done, making breakfast, helping with schoolwork, singing Christmas carols with a lump in my throat.<br />
<br />
And the other half remembering. The the sound of the door opening at five thirty. The protection from rain when he held an umbrella over my head. What it felt like to be at this certain place with him, to eat here, to shop there. The late night laughter. The easy weekends. The day in and day out of he and I, together.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-23193558105129831742016-09-06T21:29:00.000-05:002016-09-06T21:29:41.851-05:00The Questions<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"There are years that ask questions and years that answer." </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/15151.Zora_Neale_Hurston" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" title="Zora Neale Hurston quotes">Zora Neale Hurston</a></div>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nearly every night, as I tuck Walter into his bed and say a quiet prayer with him, I see his lip trembling in the murky glow from his nightlight on the wall. His voice begins to shake and then he asks me. "Is Daddy coming home tomorrow?" I reassure him that he is, and that he'll be home for dinner as usual. "But I miss him," he says, his tiny murmur breaking a little. Every time, the same. He's not leaving just yet, love. He'll be home tomorrow. But I'm running out of days I can promise that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">People have asked the questions even before I was his wife. <i>He's coming home soon, though? He doesn't have to deploy at all, because he's not active duty?</i> Or, <i>he doesn't have to deploy again because he's already been to Afghanistan, right?</i> As if there is an Army punch card like the kind they hand out at a smoothie shop, and once you've checked that box of deployment, it's just counting the days until retirement and easiness. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">He has been away most of this summer, partly due to pre-deployment, and partly for "regular" military training. During the last time, as we talked in the car, Millie said she missed him, but she was getting used to him being gone. My heart sank. She told me the Army makes her sad because he has to go places a lot, and all I could do is nod from the front seat, and try to let her know I agree without crying in front of her. The night after</span><span style="background-color: white;"> he came home, Walter asked, "You don't have to go back to Georgia for a while, do you?" He needed that reassurance, even at three years old. And we had to break the news about the deployment the next day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But it's their questions, the most<span style="background-color: white;"> innocent questions, that break me. <i>Where is Daddy's toothbrush? Why is his car here? Is he on an airplane? Where is Georgia? Where is Virginia? Where is Afghanistan? Did Daddy fight people? Can Daddy fix this toy when he gets back? What chair is the one Daddy sits in- I forget? Where is he going this time? Where is that country? Why does he have to go?</i></span></span><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For someone who usually finds respite and refuge in words, I'm suddenly without them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He probably won't get leave to visit us halfway through and make it a little easier. I can't dress that up to make it prettier. I can't shrink the distance, or improve the wifi signal for Skype, or change the time zone there to match ours. Instead, we'll sleep as he wakes, and he'll go to bed as we're getting up. He'll be doing his job in the heat of the day while we are quiet in our beds, and when he rests, we will be busy with school, and errands, and life that has to continue to be lived in Illinois.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We took a small trip to St. Louis last weekend. I desperately wanted the kids to have a large, shining memory of our family and our time with him before he leaves, and it was just that. We laughed, and ate too much, and visited family. Most of the time, I could push the deployment towards the back of my mind, and while never completely gone, I felt the weight drop from my shoulders a little. Now, as we return back to every day life for a brief amount of time, all I can do is look at the calendar with dread. The tears are back, and it's turned from a bitter rage to a choking panic. We talk about it late at night, and he lets me cry and say all the things I need to say until I'm able to catch my breath.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am running out of questions to ask, because no matter the details, I know he simply won't be home with us. So instead, I try to answer theirs. I tell them we'll send boxes because he'll miss the holidays. I encourage them to go on a walk with him or read an extra story at bedtime. I assure them he will be safe. I set my jaw so that I can answer all the questions without worrying them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But then, when it's just the two of us, I ask him over and over- <i>do you have to go? </i>Then I close my eyes and hope that the answer will be different than all the nights before, and hug him tight while I still can. </span></div>
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-64960704039977926552016-08-04T13:14:00.001-05:002016-08-04T13:39:57.032-05:00Strange and Breathless Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photos by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KDarlingDesignPhotography/?fref=ts">kdarling photography</a>}</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"The first week of August hangs at the very top of the summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color. Often at night there is lightning, but it quivers all alone. There is no thunder, no relieving rain. These are strange and breathless days." </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: left;">— </span><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/1954.Natalie_Babbitt" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Natalie Babbitt quotes">Natalie Babbitt</a></div>
<br />
Every summer, I wait. Impatiently and with expectation, I live through the heat and sweat until that first crisp, cool day, when the air smells faintly of cinnamon and apples and the leaves begin to turn. Fall has always been my most favorite season, and I revel in pulling out plaid shirts and cozy scarves. This year, I think I'll feel the cold even more without the warmth of his hand in mine.<br />
<br />
The night he told me, he was states away for drill with his new unit. He told me over the phone, and I kept it together until we hung up. Then, in the dark, I felt my way through the hall and into the living room. I switched the light on and held up our tiny globe, tracing a line from Illinois across the blue ocean, all the way to the other side of the world, letting my fingers land in that country as I took a breath. It's too far. He'll be too far.<br />
<br />
I didn't go to bed until four the next morning. All night, my mind raced with what this would mean for us. A few days later, I had to take his will to the safe deposit box. I followed the cheerful bank clerk down the stairs as he made small talk, folding the will in half so he wouldn't see what I held, and it was about that moment when it began to sink in that my husband really is leaving.<br />
<br />
There are days that this swallows me whole. I am so terrified, so heartbroken thinking about the dark cloud looming over the next year, that I sometimes cannot breathe. And instead of being able to calm my racing heart, it's reminding me that this panic won't be for the future what ifs, but for the reality of day in and day out until he is home. It often feels grueling to live for the moment when I see a wild tornado spinning on the horizon.<br />
<br />
So this is what it's like. I have been an emotional wreck in between the normal. I can usually hold it together for about an hour before reality insists on being felt, and I have to run to my room to wipe the tears away. I want to cling to Sky every second, and at the same time, put up walls in the hope that I won't miss him as much that way. I rehearse where and when and how we'll tell Millie and Walter that they won't see their dad until next year. I stop thumbing through a rack of clothes because there's a sad country song playing, and what's the point in buying something he's not even going to see me wear anyway? I've stopped picking him up much from the store, because what would he be able to use in 130 degree heat and sand? I want to talk about the deployment every five minutes (hence this blog post) because it is all I can think about, and because the planner in me wants to micromanage every second of his absence. I ask him to make me promise after promise. And despite all of this, a very tiny part of me still has a hope that this is all a giant misunderstanding, that they won't need him after all, that this isn't happening<br />
<br />
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<br />
Soon, he'll be gone for training, and then home for a just a little while before he's officially in deployment mode. The time feels so short. We're trying to plan a trip away, a last hurrah, because the military didn't give enough notice to be able to send us to their weekend of information and bonding. I've felt so utterly alone when it comes to getting support from the Army, which is made more frustrating by the fact that we are a Reserve family, living no where near a base or anyone who could help. It's so strange that my husband is being sent to the other half of the earth and no one will breathe a word to me, and barely to him. We are having to plan and decide and gather completely on our own, and going from our normal life to a temporary active duty family is the biggest adjustment and challenge.<br />
<br />
I am hoping, maybe after a month or two into deployment, that I'll find my strength, leave some of the sadness behind, and feel confident and calm about being here while he's there. For now, this is what I'm capable of, and I can't apologize for it. I've tried to come up with metaphors to describe it in non-military ways, but they all sound overly dramatic and probably silly. So I will just say this- it hurts, and it's confusing, and I am trying to cherish our remaining days.<br />
<br />
When Millie's tooth came out the night before her birthday, I sat in the other room and looked up, whispering a prayer of thanks that he was home. It is one less thing he'll miss in an ocean of those moments. He was here for their birthdays this year, even if he may miss the next ones. And though it is part of what makes the timing of this especially crushing, I am so glad that we are <u>happy</u>. So many years of struggle went before, but we have spent these last months in true happiness. It devastates me to finally reach this place only to have it taken from us, but it also makes me so grateful that our parting will be one of love and hope. Our next anniversary won't be spent together, but it will be one of the hardest, sweetest, and most meaningful.<br />
<br />
So this year, autumn will be chilly long before I sip a hot cider. I'll have to learn how to love it in different ways, and learn how to love it despite what it will be taking away from me. I will have to feel the snap of confetti-colored leaves beneath my feet, lift my face to the harvest moon, and know that, by next autumn, I'll feel his warmth beside me again.<br />
<br />
Until then, I'll carry these last searing days we have together like hot coals, watching them glow, feeling every last ember in my hands until the leaves turn yet again.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-2036326915554635062016-07-11T18:28:00.001-05:002016-07-11T20:10:12.772-05:00The Blue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">"Joy has been a habit.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">Now</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">Suddenly</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">This rain."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">— </span><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/82593.Jack_Gilbert" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: lato, "helvetica neue", helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Jack Gilbert quotes"><b>Jack Gilbert</b></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
four of us were stretched out on plastic lawn chairs at the swimming pool. The
sun was warming our bodies and drying our swimsuits. Sky had one hand resting
on my arm. The rest of them were facing the opposite direction, while I stared
into the baby pool, sobbing silently behind my oversized sunglasses. And when
my aunt texted me later in the evening and told me I'm strong, it felt
difficult to believe it. Honestly, who cries at the pool?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We
were planning the night before he told me. Sitting in bed, with my planner
opened to August, we were discussing a date for Millie's birthday party, and
hoping for a mini vacation to St. Louis before we began the school year. What I
thought would be a quiet, perhaps even dull summer has instead been quite busy,
and there was still so much we wanted to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
next evening, the night before Walter's birthday, he walked in the door with a
strange look on his face. "I need to talk to you about something. Don't
say no yet." I looked at him. "No," I joked, nervously. He told
me there was an opportunity to deploy, and the air immediately left the room.
We discussed the few little details he had, and he said they wanted to know the
very next day. I cried about four times that night, and we talked for hours,
discussing the pros and cons. In the morning, over breakfast, we talked a bit
more, and he announced that he would tell the unit no.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But
the information began to change hour by hour, as things often do when it comes
to the military. The dates that sounded far away began inching closer and
closer. What sounded like a possibility quickly became a certainty. What first
sounded voluntary was clearly mandatory. And so we sat at the kitchen table,
singing happy birthday to our little boy, with a stunned hush afterward because
we'll have to tell them soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
look at the two of them and instantly feel tears welling up. They don't even
know what is being asked of them, and once they do, they won't understand why.
How could they when I can't? It will be the longest separation from Sky that
they've had in their lives, by far. And when he was gone just for the month of
June, it was hard. They missed him, they cried, and there was only so much I
can do to soothe it. People always remark how great it is now compared to
years ago, when there was no internet or Skype or even phone calls, when
letters could take weeks to arrive. But all of those things (if they even are
available) are such small comforts,
especially to a little girl and little boy who can't hug their daddy for months
at a time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We
don't even technically know the day he leaves or where he'll be yet (and I
won't be able to discuss it here on the blog even when we do), but we do know
that it most likely won't be in a dangerous place, and I can find some peace in
that. I still vividly remember the feelings I had when my brother and Sky were
deployed. I woke every morning terrified of what I might hear on the news that
day, worried sick that someone would call me and give me bad news. That fear,
and that crushing worry of missing people who could be hurt or killed by some
awful enemy, turned me into someone who was always on the edge of furious. For
that year they were gone, I had a much shorter fuse. I would be irritated at
anyone who dare breathe a word about the war, or soldiers, or politics at all.
When I would go out with friends and a man might </span>approach<span style="font-family: inherit;"> me, I would
seethe that he could think to do so while people's lives were in danger. I
learned that when I get that sad- truly, deeply, maddeningly sad- it turns to
rage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This
time, without the threat of a war zone, I am still angry at how quickly this
all happened, and without any warning. But mostly, I am grieving already. I'm
grieving the summer that was stolen from us, grieving the holidays and
birthdays and special times that will be missed. I'm grieving the loss of date
nights, of inside jokes missed, of holding hands, of parenting talks and
decisions, of late trips out for ice cream or slushies, of laughing over
something ridiculous before we sigh and kiss goodnight. I'm aching at knowing,
quite soon, we will have to curl up with Millie and Walter on the couch, and
explain to them that he'll be away for a very long time. (Yes, I'm </span>technically<span style="font-family: inherit;"> telling you before I've told them, because it's easier to find the words here.) I am finding myself
panicked and desperate to do all the fun, quality family time things that we can
find to do before he goes, as if giving them a tiny bank of silly memories
will help somehow. And maybe it will. But it doesn't feel like anything will
help right now. It's just hard knowing that I can't 'protect' them from Sky's
absence. I can't shorten the days he'll be gone, not by a single hour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I
planned to type out words about this deployment with facts, with timelines and
maps and assurances that the four of us will be fine. And deep down in my
heart, I know we will. But I just can't pretend that this is <i>normal</i>. Even
though he enlisted all those years ago. Even though we've been apart so many
times. Even though it's part of his job as a solider in the Army. Even though many military </span>families<span style="font-family: inherit;"> have done this half a dozen times over. I <u>know</u> all
that. I just can't resign myself to feeling that it's okay my husband won't be here.
My mind can search for reasons and almost find them, but my heart cannot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When
Sky and my brother were overseas, I still lived my life. I went to work every
day, shopped for groceries, went to garage sales with my dad, and called my
mom. I woke up thinking about the boys, though, and went to bed every night the
same way. And throughout it all, there was a somber haze over that year. There
was plenty of good, plenty of growth, and some distractions, but always, that
filmy shade of blue that tinted all I did and everywhere I went. I know that
Millie, Walter, and I will be fine. I know we'll have good times, and even
great ones. I know I'm capable, and that I have a great family to support me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But
I also know the blue will be there, quiet and insistent, weaving in and out of
our days until he's home.</span></div>
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-17155560941528815232016-06-16T21:39:00.000-05:002016-06-16T21:41:59.169-05:00Yellow Fireflies & Green Corn<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XR8ytnl4WSA2AkYyB4X1o0vmdDYfWKdKo89N8SVB3jEo2T-JkXzG3aOF474PkfZnVlcBBucYQsKLHxtwiQAGB5mdC2Cfs49JNfIDWcfQKd76NhQzO1PSKsALS-a_7a1l00_gKG1SZPw/s1600/13239037_786470361490337_9001264121360336852_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XR8ytnl4WSA2AkYyB4X1o0vmdDYfWKdKo89N8SVB3jEo2T-JkXzG3aOF474PkfZnVlcBBucYQsKLHxtwiQAGB5mdC2Cfs49JNfIDWcfQKd76NhQzO1PSKsALS-a_7a1l00_gKG1SZPw/s640/13239037_786470361490337_9001264121360336852_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"those moments, so</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">in the perfumed heat of summer night." </span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/31907.Mark_Strand" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" title="Mark Strand quotes">Mark Strand</a></div>
</span><br />
June is supposed to be a month when time slows. We sit on long front porches with glasses of sweet tea, talking a little more slowly, our posture a little more relaxed, with less to do and less to think. That's how it should be, in my mind. But instead, June has been a series of busy moments, of loud, brief thunderstorms, blinding sunlight, and humid nights beginning to glow with the gentle luminescence of fireflies looking wistfully at the stars.<br />
<br />
So much has happened since I last wrote- none of it very important but to our little family. Still, there are milestones, memories, birthdays, and long stretches of time apart that compel me to stretch out on my bed and type for a while.<br />
<br />
First, we recently wrapped up our beginning year of homeschooling, and more importantly, Millie's kindergarten year. It's strange to think that she was a newborn in my arms nearly six years ago, that those years have gone by like days, and that she will begin first grade in the fall. We spent a lot of time on reading, of course, and there is nothing that compares to witnessing that process. I watched her bloom into reading sentences after sounding out three letter words over and over again. Perhaps most amazing was seeing her handwriting that I've helped form, leaning with her over the lines and the curves until she's confident enough, after a few misspellings, to write "I love you Mommy" on a construction paper card, with magazine scraps cut out and glued to it. She also attended a homeschooling co-op, and it was wonderful to make friends who are learning the same way.<br />
<br />
Walter, who still feels like my baby, will be three this month. The last two days, I've sold a dresser and rocking chair to make space in his room for a twin bed. They were both pieces- probably the only ones left- that we used when each baby came home from the hospital. I had a little cry after they were gone. Sky and I haven't completely shut the door to the notion of having one more child, but it's slowly creaking to a close and days like today remind me of that. I was never one to imagine my children, or to dream about how many I would have someday. But when I quickly learned just how fast they grow, my heart doesn't want to forget what it's like with a newborn on my chest, soft and warm and impossibly perfect. Thank goodness Walter still loves to snuggle with me.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnzBahpTQaLqNOd1DAW52ZmuY6wi9JlhcweCXWnno173j9Pat5LqYZN-tDhiatvMTtyaF-UNLAycM_209-6twIsRn9DiM14eRPnHrKjKYC3GW7x89C_9rITiqhaUGQCG82F4iZleTQhCE/s1600/13282090_10206356441619619_1762309113_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnzBahpTQaLqNOd1DAW52ZmuY6wi9JlhcweCXWnno173j9Pat5LqYZN-tDhiatvMTtyaF-UNLAycM_209-6twIsRn9DiM14eRPnHrKjKYC3GW7x89C_9rITiqhaUGQCG82F4iZleTQhCE/s640/13282090_10206356441619619_1762309113_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">{photos by Kristin of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KDarlingDesignPhotography">k darling photography</a>}</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Sky has been away all month, completing more training for his Army career. It's always interesting to see how the time apart will be, because every time he leaves means leaving kids of different ages than what they were the time before. I never exactly know what to expect, and this time was no exception. Millie, Walter, and I were really down when he first left. It's kind of a helpless, lost feeling. Thankfully, we planned swim lessons for Millie during two of the weeks he'd be gone, and that has helped us stay busy and entertained. She finished them up today, triumphant and elated that she can swim underwater now. Walter and I splashed in the baby pool, I got a slight tan and then a less-than-slight sunburn, and we were happy and thankful for the fresh air, albeit in 90 degrees.<br />
<br />
The biggest differences with this time away are the quiet nights and subdued moments of the day, when I pause for a breath and remember my husband isn't here. So many times, earlier in our marriage, I would wonder if the only thing keeping us together was the forced time away from each other. But in the early morning hours after he drove to the airport, the tears rolled down my cheeks, and all I could do was whisper, "Thank you, God." I know that my heart needs his, and that is a gift and a miracle. The three of us here are so proud of him, and we're ready for him to come home.<br />
<br />
The photos here were shot by someone who has not only been taking pictures for our family since Walter was in my belly, but by someone who has become a friend, too. She's been on much of the journey with us, and though we have had lots of beautiful pictures of the kids as they've grown, I couldn't help but stare at the one of our whole family that she took a couple days before Sky had to go. I love where we are now, and the hope of where we'll be. How blessed we are to be together.<br />
<br />
So perhaps June hasn't been lazy and calm the way it is in stories. For us, it's been a time of growth, of beating sun and the smell of chlorine, of long distance phone calls and 'goodnight's from far away, and a time with two little people who seem to be a bit bigger and older every second. It's bittersweet, and it is filled with the broken and beautiful moments that string one day onto the next. The cornfields are so green and climbing high, and if the corn is good, it must be a good summer in Illinois.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-48350094266109367402016-04-01T12:26:00.001-05:002016-05-09T19:06:08.603-05:00Dull Roots and Spring Rain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHdOp1Ws0BIxa8aNT6-YBffX1wglKnxrAfz9ZnsrHCwqfU6lpgfMEPRwks8nRwghGkZ2rRxADpr1J04Z52K27_BCiFGuY9NMeEELcmuBFKo8JY0dfKfVXddua3h_TqaqLkH-Td0Mm9cU/s1600/2016-04-01+12.13.52+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMHdOp1Ws0BIxa8aNT6-YBffX1wglKnxrAfz9ZnsrHCwqfU6lpgfMEPRwks8nRwghGkZ2rRxADpr1J04Z52K27_BCiFGuY9NMeEELcmuBFKo8JY0dfKfVXddua3h_TqaqLkH-Td0Mm9cU/s400/2016-04-01+12.13.52+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"April [...], breeding</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">lilacs out of the dead land, mixing</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
memory and desire, stirring</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
dull roots with spring rain." </div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/18540.T_S_Eliot" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" title="T.S. Eliot quotes">T.S. Eliot</a> </div>
</span><br />
I didn't write in March. It's not my fault, of course- March is generally the most uninspiring month, full of unsteady, confused weather, too much to do, and not enough will to do it. It's the longest month when winter never ends, just like August draws summer out to an unbearable length. These two months probably shouldn't exist.<br />
<br />
But April is a month of unrestrained hope. The wind smells like new flowers, and we gasp for it after so many days of seeing our breath in the air. There is so much possibility, even if we aren't quite sure what it's for. I can ignore the days of sunburns ahead and be present for today, the way the Millie and Walter run like foals daring to stand for the first time. Springtime, floating its blooms over my head and growing everything green under my feet, makes me want to celebrate for celebration's sake. It makes me want to play the piano, write poetry, blow soapy bubbles with the kids, eat al fresco on a date night with Sky, and have another baby to cuddle.<br />
<br />
Now that this perfumed oxygen is filling my lungs, it feels better to write. It feels better to do just about everything. This Midwest life means I can't quite pack up my sweaters just yet, but it also means I can pull out a pair of sandals just in case. So I wear a cardigan over a t-shirt, and let the brand new wash over my heart while remembering the last ten or twenty Aprils I've had, savoring the good like wine and dropping the bad from my hands to flutter away.<br />
<br />
And suddenly, I'm younger, reminiscing about the April I was missing Sky, when he was in a desert and I was praying desperate prayers that he and my brother would come home safely to see the green Illinois cornfields again. Or the Aprils when I watched my stomach get rounder, a kicking baby's foot pressing against my palm, before I knew their every feature but God already did. Maybe April is less hope than it is sheer gratefulness, come to think of it.<br />
<br />
After March's dim light, I can put away the moodiness that often comes with a love of writing, and be content. Our family is in a season of being content, I think. We have dreams and plans, of course- we long for our first home, for things to feel more settled and secure- but we have had a long journey already, and we can look back with amazement. Our hearts have been tired and worn, but on April first, we can lift up our faces to the sunshine and leave that deep, swirling blue of stormclouds behind us. We have come so far.<br />
<br />
I read a verse in Psalms today that I had forgotten- "[...] <i>in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me</i>" (Psalm 139:16b). And it surprised me, because I somehow seem to forget. Days were formed for me. Every April I'll ever have has been crafted and shaped perfectly, and though the days themselves might not seem perfect, I can rest in knowing the unknown is already written.<br />
<br />
So today, in the hours that are left of it, I will drink in the crisp, sunny weather, do my dreaming and planning, and simply be happy for the beauty I've been given. How lovely it is.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-54857508472784720802016-02-16T20:05:00.000-06:002016-02-16T20:05:26.948-06:00The Sewing Machine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSke8NSTXn5osiX5AbSzfxLCVs_dOGoqEnDrAjowoBcXp8VsM_4irOm7ZcoJzi281Ym_WAmddXafxxrLcWVEhpblbmkoa0wburLiZf9v_M6McSHhHHAGky0RnFdHy36N9YrP3ICic0ejI/s1600/2015-12-13+01.21.57+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSke8NSTXn5osiX5AbSzfxLCVs_dOGoqEnDrAjowoBcXp8VsM_4irOm7ZcoJzi281Ym_WAmddXafxxrLcWVEhpblbmkoa0wburLiZf9v_M6McSHhHHAGky0RnFdHy36N9YrP3ICic0ejI/s320/2015-12-13+01.21.57+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"I know you're tired but come, this is the way." </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">— </span><a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/875661.Rumi" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 21px; text-decoration: none;" title="Rumi quotes">Rumi</a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In December, my mama was here for a visit. One night, long after Millie and Walter were tucked into their beds, we brewed some tea and dug out my sewing machine. It was bought years ago and was primarily used for collecting dust. She made adjustments here and there, explained the mechanics, and promised to help me learn. And in my deep desire to make and to do and to be motherly, the idea thrilled me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have many memories of lingering near her sewing machine as she measured, cut, and stitched. I can still hear the sound from her room across the hall, even though she's on the other side of the country now. There was a red satin dress with pearl buttons and puffed sleeves that she made me for Christmas, a little doll with a flowered gown and bonnet, the green jumper I wore on St. Patrick's day, the pastel for Easter, and a few dozen more. That machine was always humming away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The next morning, with the kids crowding around the table to play with scraps and measuring tapes, Mom showed me how to make a quick pillowcase. The technique made an easy idea even easier, and in just a few minutes, Millie was clutching her pink and purple flowered flannel, while Walter made joyful exclamations over his cotton train print. After Mom left, I set the sewing machine on the end of the kitchen table, determined to make a pillowcase on my own. That was nearly two months ago, and I haven't sewn a single stitch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It used to be the same with reading, especially when I had to juggle schoolwork as well. While I've gotten better at working through books these days, it's still not at the pace I did at 10 or 20 years old. My days are so different now. I don't remember them being anything other than filled to the brim.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I'm tired. Most nights, my eyes are sore from it. I got a small taste of it in pregnancy. I expected the tiredness then, and the sleepless nights that would follow, but imagined life leveling off after the first year or so. During the second pregnancy, it hit even harder. Here I am with two little ones, and despite being able to sleep though the night (baring sickness or storms), the energy I used to have hasn't returned. I find myself daydreaming about a meal train and help with laundry for moms of children under 18- never mind new mothers. I still have to look up the recipe for lasagna, even though it barely needs one and I've made it one hundred times. I'm too tired for much memory.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">It begins before I open my eyes and find pieces of light breaking through the blinds. I hear little voices talking, or singing, or calling for mama. I stumble through breakfast with decaf coffee, get them dressed and sometimes dress myself, and the day has started. It's full of school to teach, places to go, appointments and lunches and laundry and nap times that seem to flutter by too quickly.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm so sleepy that I can't make a pillowcase. Maybe tomorrow, I tell myself, when I have less to do, less to clean, an easier supper to cook or less errands to run. Their bedtimes stories leave little energy for some of my own. As the night grows dark and the baths are done, my plans change from reading a few chapters from one of the books in my towering stack, to flipping through a mindless magazine instead, to giving up completely and hoping Downton Abbey isn't a rerun. Mostly, I just wonder how my own parents managed, and how they had any energy left to unfold the newspaper after dinnertime.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And yet, there is an irony. People talk a lot about their truth, or a great touchstone in their lives, and this is mine; I find such sweet rest in those two little people who have the loveliest faces I've ever seen. In those hugs, the kind that wrap all the way around my neck as if they're holding on so not to be swept away in a wild current. In the sleepy sweat of their hair in the dark, when I check on them one more time and whisper things for them to hear in their dreams. In holding their small, soft hands as we cross the street on a walk. In watching as they sit side by side on the couch, turning pages in a book and exchanging outlandish thoughts in a way only a five year old and two year old could</span><span style="color: #222222;"> do.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I give them this part of me, this very strength I have to go through the day, because they somehow give it back tenfold in the smallest moments. We dance through this give and take, through the exhaustion and the </span>exhilaration<span style="font-family: inherit;">, because it is all we know and all we could ever hope for in life. And though the sewing machine may have to wait for a few more days, and then a few more after that, I know when the house is still, we have done what we could do that day. The rest that comes in this is more than enough.</span></span></span>erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-75426392922301997362016-01-18T21:55:00.000-06:002016-01-18T21:55:04.854-06:00Year Six<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"A sacrament--like marriage--means living a life better </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">than your natural instincts, so that you're modeling God. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">And God never gives up." </span></div>
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— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/7128.Jodi_Picoult" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" title="Jodi Picoult quotes">Jodi Picoult</a></div>
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We were so young, so very young, even though it was only six years ago.<br />
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Neither of us knew how to be married. You were foolish and reckless with my heart and left us with a pain that fused together bitterness and regret. I was inexperienced with being a good wife, and left us with a lot of burnt, processed freezer food and a beautiful new baby who cried approximately 23 hours each day. We were supposed to be in that newlywed bliss that we assumed would follow the tiny ceremony in our apartment's dining room with the creeky wooden floor, the breezy sheer curtains we hung for the occasion, and the windows that overlooked a brick, snowy Illinois Street. After we came back from an Italian dinner we could not well afford, we both thought the hard part was over.<br />
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Our relationship has been on the brink of breaking many times, and both of us know this well. Marriage is hard, but we have had it harder than many, I think. We've spent much of the time wondering how the bills would be paid, but they always were. We spent time wondering how God could fix our hearts, but He always has. We spent time wondering if we'd make it another year, but we always do. Most would look at six years as a drop in the bucket of marriage, but we know better, you and I.<br />
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And here we are, only a little way down the road of the journey. Since those rings were exchanged, we've named a little girl and a little boy, staying awake countless nights for them, learning with them, growing together not just as two, but as a family of four. We've changed jobs- you both in the civilian world and with your military promotions, and me from my secretary's cardigans and heels to a mother at home. You've learned how to fix the car that breaks every few months, and I've learned how to feed us all with recipes that are filling, albeit simple. You're a father who reads bedtime stories in silly voices, and I'm a mother who cries the night before every birthday they have. I barely recognize your baby face and my bleach blonde hair in the few photos we have from our wedding day. Every day is a step towards something better- not shiner, or more impressive, but tarnished with the age of experience and persistent hope. I'm proud that we didn't let go.<br /><br />I don't think there will be an itch in year seven, because we've only just begun to be married. We've started over so many times that it seems more like our first anniversary. No one can truly say their vows with the full weight of their meaning, not really. It's in the every day that we learn those things-what it really is in the "for worse" part, and what it can really be in the "for better". No one can grasp the hurt that can occur, or the deep laughter, or the common experiences that sew everything together. The beauty of it is that these years, full or lean, cold or warm, crumbling or solid, have all sewn us together, even when we weren't aware.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"></span><br />
One of my favorite quotes is this: "Love is a battlefield, love is a war, love is a growing up." (James Baldwin) Six months after you came home from a war, I married you. And six years later, here we are, still fighting for all things good, and growing up into the kind of people who never give up.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-45042897320851890502015-12-30T21:57:00.001-06:002015-12-30T21:57:52.062-06:00Hold Dear<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"Hold dear to your parents for it is a scary and confusing world without them." </span></div>
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— <a class="authorOrTitle" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/7440.Emily_Dickinson" style="color: #333333; font-family: Lato, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;" title="Emily Dickinson quotes">Emily Dickinson</a></div>
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Remember that far back? When you were only 5 or 10? Your parents were still all-knowing, mostly without flaws, and you were pretty sure they didn't actually exist as people until you arrived- the thought of them having any other roles besides Mom and Dad was such a strange concept that it never crossed your mind. God put the two of them on this earth for the sole purpose of raising you, and maybe a sibling or two down the road, inconsequentially. You relied on them for everything you wanted or needed, but you dreamed of future independence.<br />
<br />You knew adulthood would be glorious. So much freedom. No answering to anyone. You'd have a fun job, a cool car, and spend your time eating ice cream at 2 am, staying up to watch David Letterman, or whatever it is parents do after your 8 o'clock bedtime. But you would never do things like them, or utter the words "because I said so", or even be corny enough to be a parent in the first place. You'd be your own person.<br />
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And then it happens. Parenthood lands in your lap with a thud, a wide-eyed, cooing baby looking at you the way you must have looked at your parents. Suddenly, you feel smaller, and maybe even more childish than before you met your own child. How is it that you are supposed to raise this little one for the next eighteen years and not make a complete mess of it all? Almost instantly, you understand your parents- everything they said to you, you want to repeat to this little child. Be careful driving in the rain- it's slick out. You're gorgeous on the inside, and that's the most important thing. Don't date that boy. Don't do something you'll regret. Clean your room.<br />
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Then you make phone calls for that Christmas cookie recipe, for ideas to soothe that baby crying in the middle of the night, for questions about your childhood. You realize that they really do know everything, or nearly, and that they are flawed because they're real people with deeply interesting stories- some that you've heard fifty times over, and some you've never heard in all your 31 years. You want them to tell about your story, but even more, you want to hear their own.<br />
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You realize they parented without Google and feel amazed that they were so capable, that they planned vacations with brochures and phone books, that you're actually jealous of that Pontiac station wagon with the faux wood paneling, and that, somehow, they didn't poison you even though they couldn't grab their phone and look up the correct dosage for children's Tylenol at 4 o'clock in the morning.<br />
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And if they don't live in the house next door, you miss them, though you tell them this about once for every thousand times the feeling passes through you, or maybe you never tell them at all. After all, you still put on a show about being an adult, when all along, you know that you may be able to fool some people, but never them.<br />
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We always think we'll outgrow our need for the people who brought us into the world. But the secret truth is that we need them always, and in some ways, even more than we did when we were 5.<br />
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Or maybe it's just me.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-89493231216168987142015-11-17T11:44:00.002-06:002015-11-17T11:44:21.453-06:00Saving the World<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">"It's funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said 'do the best you can with these, they will have to do'. And mostly, against all odds, they do." </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">— </span><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/7113.Anne_Lamott" style="background-color: white; color: #666600; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Anne Lamott quotes">Anne Lamott</a></div>
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As I poured a second cup of coffee, swirling the cream around with my spoon, it suddenly occurred to me that it's already mid-November. I looked out the window at the rain coming down in sheets, loud and insistent, at the leaves covering the ground in mix of bright yellows and dull browns. It's nearly the end of the year, and like every year, I wonder how we got here so quickly.<br />
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Immediately after those thoughts, another thought came: <i>Paris</i>. I keep coming back to it, like so many others. Somehow, I'm still a little surprised each time things like this happen. I've been reading profiles of the victims, imaging the families who lost someone, trying to make sense of something that will never be fathomable to sane people. Tragedy after tragedy we jump, from one breaking news story to the next.<br />
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The end of the year is upon us, and it is too easy for me to look at those stories and sum it all up in a defeated sigh. It's been a hard year in many other ways, too. A friend I've known since I was 5 years old had twin baby girls born prematurely, and while one is still in the NICU, I attended the memorial service for the other. As I sat in the wooden church pew, looking at her sweet picture, my tears fell as much as in anger as in sadness, because something like that isn't fair, and shouldn't happen. Paris shouldn't have happened, nor should the hundreds of other mass shootings this year, every year. My health has been a bit of a mess lately, and it pales in comparison to what others I know are struggling with right now. Our state is six months into the fiscal year without a budget, without heating/electricity assistance for the poor, with people losing jobs, with no help for disabled and elderly people. As all these thoughts circled in my mind, I had to put my mug of coffee down and wipe my eyes. None of this makes sense. It doesn't even feel like a reality.<br />
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I looked up at Millie and Walter. Someone is dancing and singing on Sesame Street, and they're giggling and paging through books, oblivious to all I'm worried about this morning. I'm constantly astonished at how beautiful they are, and how beautiful people like them can even exist in this kind of world. Sometimes it feels like God is reminding me of what I have to be grateful for, because their light shines through the bleakest times.<br />
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At age 31, I have so much yet to learn. One thing I am learning, perhaps the hard way, is that I have to count my blessings where I can. Not in a blindly optimistic, Pollyanna way, but in a deeply grateful, even reverent way. In a way that clings to everything I've been graciously given because those things are little life rafts from God in a wildly stormy sea. Because I think that's the only act of defiance I have, and maybe how good wins in the end. To sing "It is Well" despite it all.<br />
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So here I am, clinging to the life rafts of those two little souls, of a husband who lets me order pizza when I feel bad, of this small miracle of warm coffee held close to my chest, of Sunday sermons, of good books. I'm clinging to the last flowers of the year my dad gave me from his garden, a big bunch of green with yellow and orange blooms. I'm clinging to the visit from my mom soon, and how we'll laugh until we cry next to the glow of a mismatched, multicolored Christmas tree with an angel looking over the whole room. I'm clinging to Walter's hugs and whispers of "you're my sweetheart" from this blonde little boy with the widest blue eyes I've ever seen. I'm clinging to Millie's excitement after choir practice, and how smart she is, how it blows me away sometimes. I'm clinging to the sight of her shaking an elderly man's hand and thanking him for his service in the military, and a beautiful song that I can't stop playing. I'm clinging to the smallest of things, like the soothing, sweet smell of a candle burning steadily, and how smooth my sheets feel when I finally wrap up in them at night, and the dance party that's happening in my living room right now.<br />
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Will dance parties and soft sheets and flowers save the world? No. Not really.<br />
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But maybe, just a little. Maybe it's enough grace for the day.<br />
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And when I slow my breathing and inhale the good for just a moment, I realize that grace for one day at a time is really all any of us need. One day after one day after one day at a time, the world is saved.erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1495382262167086568.post-32406766621033053462015-10-23T13:11:00.004-05:002015-10-27T13:05:54.032-05:00Empty Spaces<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">"You've walked those streets a thousand times and still</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">you end up here. Regret none of it, not one</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,</span></div>
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</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
when the lights from the carnival rides</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
were the only stars you believed in, loving them</div>
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for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.</div>
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You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house</div>
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after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs</div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied</div>
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of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering</div>
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any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign</div>
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on the corner, and watch all the people walk by." </div>
</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
— <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/155377.Dorianne_Laux" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;" title="Dorianne Laux quotes">Dorianne Laux</a></div>
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</span>I turned onto the main road as I was telling him about it, little yellow leaves trying to keep up with the tires for a brief moment, before they sighed and settled onto the street again. "I picked up some Christmas presents at a lady's house- did I tell you about that buying co-op I recently joined? They had Melissa and Doug toys on sale?- and anyway, her house was big and impressive looking. You know, one of those typical subdivision houses that cost a few hundred thousand and have no shade on the street because the trees are so young?"<br />
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My dad nodded from the passenger seat. We have similar taste in houses.<br />
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"So I get there, and pick up the boxes that were sitting in her living room, and I realize there is nothing in it but stained carpet and a couch. The next room was just as bare. It was really strange."<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Dad chimed in. "I saw the same thing on calls," he told me, referring to his firefighting. "Big, fancy houses that looked impressive, but they couldn't afford a stick of furniture." We speculated about how many had likely gone into foreclosure. So much show in a house, but no comfort of a home. Empty spaces with a sorrowful echo inside, but their stately appearance outside fooled the rest of the world.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">And then, this morning, I saw another empty space that made me gasp.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Just across the hall from where we live now, another apartment is familiar, too. It's the one Sky and I lived in right before Millie was born. The most recent </span>tenants<span style="font-family: inherit;"> abruptly (i.e., sneakily) moved out early last Saturday morning, leaving a few belongings, some empty boxes, and a huge mess for the landlords. I heard them cleaning it this morning, and watched their pickup rumble down the street toward a dumpster. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Instantly, something in me was curious. I opened my front door, staring into the other apartment where that front door had been left wide open. It smelled dirty, the carpet was a mess, and yet I was tempted. I looked around the hall, and stepped two small steps into our old place. I stood there for a moment and surveyed the past.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Empty and silent, with windows open and sun shining through. I thought of all the arguments that had tinted those walls, how there were stains of the our history that I'll never quite be able to scrub clean. If walls could talk, ours would have sobbed, most likely. I thought about how we left for the hospital right before midnight on a Thursday, how Millie was born on a Saturday, and how she was carried over the threshold on Monday. I thought about the lonely nights I spent with just her there, crying every few hours to be fed, or to be held, and how I would cry along with her. I remembered the awkward visits a therapist would make, sitting on the loveseat while I sat with Sky on the couch, trying to bravely say how I felt until I would </span>dissolve<span style="font-family: inherit;"> into a mess of anger and heartbreak. </span>I thought of the time I made a lasagna, only a few days after moving in, and left the house for a a half an hour as it baked in the oven, returning to blaring carbon monoxide alarms that forced the whole building to evacuate while the firemen roamed our apartment until it was safe. With all the betraying, fighting, and blaming in that apartment, it was never safe. As we slowly added pieces of furniture to the rooms, we also added resentment, pain, and scars.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxZ3yrh5mIM8zICWWA1T_blZa16idwSV6zfCg3uFmyNjayPiRfqUXzSCa3eGOrwzcD4BLs1LI4mUlfYq2vX5VpuzF4sJ8F8O4PGc5R13uKOewT97Y3hsCdQ2K6prHyI9CXKrh7eDh2OQ/s1600/IMG_20151022_113705.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxZ3yrh5mIM8zICWWA1T_blZa16idwSV6zfCg3uFmyNjayPiRfqUXzSCa3eGOrwzcD4BLs1LI4mUlfYq2vX5VpuzF4sJ8F8O4PGc5R13uKOewT97Y3hsCdQ2K6prHyI9CXKrh7eDh2OQ/s400/IMG_20151022_113705.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But this place, just across the hall in the same building, trudging up the same staircase every week to put away groceries? This place is going to be different. While outside, the bricks blend in, looking like any apartment building on the street, the inside is full to the brim. We'll have a life to pack up when we move out- the two sets of chipped white dishes, minus one cracked bowl that recently landed in the trashcan. We'll have scribbled artwork made with Crayolas and chubby, little hands. We'll have a lot more books than we even started out with, which is shameful and glorious all at the same time. There are old quilts folded up in the closet, old dishes hanging daintily on the wall, and old journals stashed under a bed. There are seldom used kitchen supplies packed in shallow boxes, last season's clothes tucked away for the year, and childhood </span>mementos that I can't part with just yet. Mismatched, decorated with clearance Target furniture, and usually covered in small fingerprints, our home is nothing to the world, but it is full to the brim of these memories.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When we leave what we have here, it will be for a house, maybe one with a vast yard for the kids and a big, shady tree or two for me. But this place won't be empty. If these walls could talk, they would tell you of the hurt that moved in, and the hearts that painstakingly took one step forward and two steps back until they finally had enough strength to outrun old ghosts. They would tell you of hurried mornings before church on Sunday, and quick dinners before choir practice on Monday. It turns out that the natural, easy pace of children growing is actually a messy, heartbreaking, intentional, day-in-and-day-out task, and this little apartment is full of that. It's full of these first days of school, of trying new recipes, of growing waistlines. It's full of Christmas presents hidden on a high up shelf, and board books </span>abandoned<span style="font-family: inherit;"> across the couch. It is where we brought </span>another small one over the threshold.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> In a few years, we'll pack everything and load it in a truck for a new destination. Yet I have a feeling it won't be as empty as when we moved in. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is so much here, in the air around us. While the weather turns chilly, our home is staying warmed, a refuge. And when I shake out the rugs, sending out specks of dust to turn into brilliant sunbeams, I wonder if the soft, filmy glow is what we'll leave someday.</span></div>
erikahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09432371971747985519noreply@blogger.com5