A New Loop

My husband is in the Navy.

I don't talk about what he does a lot because a) I have no real understanding of it, as I'm a former English teacher, while he does things with nuclear science and physics and whatnot, and b) because he (and probably the Navy) don't like me talking about it, anyway.

Not to mention the fact that I'm not even allowed to see what he does or go anywhere near his "office," so to speak.

So I could paint you a picture, but it would most likely be folklore. I'm just not that well-versed.

Regardless, from what I do understand, he's very good at his job.

How do I know this? Because he was one of a few select sailors who was actually offered a position that would have kept us here (in South Carolina) for another two years, after he finished the training he was put here to do back in the spring of 2010.

I was so happy for him; he's worked his tail off, and for him to be recognized and promoted because of that? Well, I couldn't think of any sailor more deserving.

Plus, the idea of remaining here - a place that is not home but has quickly become one - wasn't such a bad idea, either.

Now, we're military. We know better than to plan for anything. We know things can change. And we know that, "This is how it should go," really means, "If you're lucky, it may go a little bit like this...but most people aren't lucky."

But this time? Well, this time, I thought for sure we had it figured out.

Because, heck, when you're in the military, and your superior officers tell you have a position, you start to rest easy. You believe them. That's their job, after all.

But, you see, that's where we went wrong.

Because, on Friday, the floor fell out from under us.

An arbitrary decision, made by people who don't even know my husband and the few other sailors selected for this promoted position here, rendered the almost impossible true.

In short, on Friday, they basically nixed the job he was supposed to have.

The job was gone. It didn't exist for the taking. Those few sailors resting easy, waiting to see their formal paperwork that said they and their families would be staying here for another two years, were shocked.

So were the higher-ups, in fact.

No one, to be clear, saw this coming.

Even me. And I was the most skeptical of the bunch.

I know not to plan ahead. I know not to assume anything. I know that, when it comes to being married to a military man, you basically have no control over your own fate.

So, on Friday, I was kicking myself for not trusting my gut, for not remaining the one hold-out that believed all this talk might be too good to be true.

Because there I was, at work, a baby on my hip, surrounded by eight of my post-partum moms about to head out for a jog, when I got the call, when I heard my husband say, "I wanted to tell you before someone else got to you..."

My jaw dropped open. And then I went through the motions of working out with my clients while my brain raced about what this all meant.

It meant that, in less than a month, we'd be somewhere else. Moved. Gone. A whole new house. A whole new town. A whole new neighborhood and church and local grocery store.

It meant that, in another month or two, the hubs could be deployed. Missing Ella's first birthday. Maybe Easter. Maybe her learning to walk and talk.

It meant that, at this time next year, I could be freezing my butt off in a climate I'm not used to. Or even living overseas.

It meant that I wouldn't have my girlfriends here so close by. It meant I wouldn't have my friends and go-to babysitters down the street. It meant I'd have to find a new yoga group, a new mommy group, a new breast-feeding group, a new doctor.

It meant Ella wouldn't get to start swim lessons next month. Not here, anyway.

It meant I wouldn't be able to attend our annual children's consignment sale.

It meant saying good-bye to our church family, our Navy family, and our work families.

It meant leaving my current job and maybe not finding another.

It meant my second child wouldn't be born into the hands of the amazing women that helped birth his/her sister.

It meant a lot of things I couldn't comprehend but that kept coming at me in waves, when I'd least expect them.

The thing is, this is expected. If my husband hadn't been offered that position, we'd be moving anyway.

But he was.

He was all-but expressly told he was staying here. That we were staying.

And now? We're not.

At this time next month, I will likely be sitting in a hotel room, my stuff being shipped off to our next home, while we finish up a few odds and ends here and then start out by plane, train, or automobile to our new location.

Where that will be? We have no idea. I can tell you it will likely be Georgia, Virginia, Connecticut, Washington, California, Hawaii, or - gulp - Guam. But I can't tell you any more details than that.

Why? Because I simply don't know.

Still, I spent most of the weekend researching homes in all the areas we could end up. I compared floor plans of the base houses. I decided what room would be Ella's, what room would be ours, what I'd do with the new extra bedrooms (Guest room? Play room? Office?).

It was my way of coping; my way of knowing that next month, I'd be setting up house in a place I'd never lived before.

That I'd be leaving the town where we'd lived for almost two years and finding a new life.

Can I do it? Heck, yes. I'm a military wife. It's what we do.

Am I ready for it? That's the part I'm not sure about.

Are you ever ready to say good-bye to the people you spend time with every day? Are you ever ready to leave the town where your baby was born? Are you ever ready to start from scratch? Again?

Maybe it's because I didn't think this would happen. Maybe it's because I, for once, let myself believe in the false sense of security the Navy was heaping on. Maybe it's because I don't like to say good-bye in the first place.

But man, this time? I'm afraid. I'm worried I won't make new friends. I'm worried I'll be the only mama, like me, with a little girl like Ella.

I'm worried we'll get there; my husband will go out to sea, and I'll be lonely.

But I'm a military wife. This is what we do.

I'll put my big-girl pants and a brave face on, and I will get through this sudden change with few tears and a smile.

This is what we do.

So, yes, I'm moving; I don't have a choice.

But I do have a choice to sink or swim, and as always, I will choose to swim.

After all, I can backstroke with the best of them.

***

Our prayer is that we will know by the end of this week where we are going. History, however, does not look good.

As of late, the detailers (the Navy sailors in charge of placing sailors at certain bases) have been swamped and therefore, a bit behind in dispatching orders. The last group of sailors to leave our base didn't have formal destinations until about a week before they were set to move. I watched those wives finagle that one; I'm not sure I could have handled it as smoothly as some of them did. (Imagine packing up a moving truck and not knowing where you're going. Yeah, that's scary.)

Still, sooner rather than later would be in our best interest. I'm actually at the point where I semi-don't-care where we go; I just want to know already.

However, if I was being honest, I'd tell you we're desperately hoping for Georgia. It's close to my family, and it's not a hugely drastic move on such short notice.

I say that in hopes y'all can send up a quick prayer that the detailer gives us our request. But I also say that knowing full well that the detailer will do what he/she wants, and that we may very well be driving cross-country in three weeks time.

Which would be quite the adventure, albeit a little panic-inducing.

All this to say that, if I'm a bit absent or absent-minded around here, forgive me. I will do my best to keep you all abreast of where the heck we're going, but I can't pretend I'm not a little frantic, with so much to plan for and no real means to plan for it yet.

So, until then, as they say in the Navy, anchors away!

***

Happy Tuesday, y'all.