I'd Write A Proper Blog Post But...

As I type this, I'm staring out my dining room window, staring at my big, sturdy husband hunched over and sitting in a bright pink, teeny-tiny kiddy pool.

In his lap?

A little 9.5-month-old girl in a ruffly swim-suit and sun-hat, scooping water with my old measuring cups. And telling him a story that goes something like this: "Ba-ba-dee. Sta-mo-duh. Beep-ah-oh! Ahhh, Dada! Ahh!"

Occasionally, she'll reach up and grab his chin and plant a little open-mouthed, slobbery kiss right on him. And a lot of the time, he'll bend down and plant a less-wet but just as well-meaning kiss atop her sweet little head.

He pretends to shriek when she kicks water and splashes him. She laughs and slaps her knees, sending more water flying.

It's everything I've ever wanted all crowded together in one cheap little pool from Wal-mart.

The hubs was gone last all week, sleeping on the base for some Navy rigamarole or other.

So, when he walked through the door Sunday morning - a day earlier than we expected him home - Ella and I positively shrieked with glee.

We spent the day as a family, getting some shopping done, lunch, and just walking and talking.

Now, they're taking a dip in the pool, and I'm writing something here real quick so I can get back to them ASAP.

Deployment is imminent, and I know it's going to, point-blank, suck.

I will have weeks and weeks where we won't even have a chance of my big old husband squeezing himself into a baby pool to make his girl(s) happy.

So, right now, I could write a proper blog post.

But I won't.

I'm going to head out to that back yard and try and squeeze at least my feet in right beside them while I still can.

***

I do have a lot of posts coming up. Some truths I need to talk about. Some information I need to share. (I didn't forget those of you wondering about baby-led weaning. And good news is, in short, it's working. I can't wait to share. It's exciting.)

So stay tuned. I promise things will get a little less lovey-dovey and a little more "There's avocado smashed all over my sun-room walls, and I like it!" around here soon.

Happy Monday, everyone.

Perspective

Have you ever

Wondered

What

Exactly

They think

About us?

***

I had a realization this weekend as I found myself, along with three other intelligent adults, standing over two babies, making silly faces, clapping my hands wildly, and making "Ahh-oo-Gah!" noises.
Parenting? It turns you into a bona-fide crazy person some times.
We made quite the ruckus, in our attempts to try and get our respective 2 and 4 month olds to smile and look at the camera, and I can only imagine what surrounding people thought.

Then again, we were not the only couples there with little babies, hoping and praying to get photos of our sweet angels on their first trip to the pumpkin patch.
And their their first trip through a corn maze.
And their first time at a petting zoo.
Did it make a bit of difference to them? No sirree Bob.
But it sure was fun showing them around and letting them get the full fall-festival experience.
Complete with a couple of yahoos acting like clowns.

Oh, wait, that's right.

That was their parents.

And, lucky them, they get to catch that show every day of the week.

***

The photos above were taken with our friends, N and L, with their little man, R, who is eight weeks younger than Ella and born at the exact same birth center as she was. In other words, that's Ella's future husband.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

The Quiet

This weekend, we had a lot of company.

Friends and church members were pouring in and out of our house almost constantly since Thursday afternoon.

It didn't quiet down till yesterday, and last night, while I tidied up what was left of the snacks I'd thrown together for our guests and folded a basket of Ella's laundry I hadn't gotten to thanks to the constant flow of fellowship, I noticed, for once, how quiet it was.

Ella was in bed. My husband was out for a run. It was just me and my house and the occasional snore from Marvin the Dog.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Not that I don't love being social, because I do, but because entertaining and accommodating is exhausting.

And, then, after my initial exhale, I realized how eerily quiet it was.

In that moment, where I was all but completely alone, I started to miss it.

The people. The family and friends. The laughter and questions and crying babies and all the noise that comes with having a tiny house that is full to the bursting with company.

I'm a bit bipolar about socializing, you see.

While I come off as an extrovert - I'm convinced it's because I'm drawn to jobs that force me to be outwardly confident and social - I'm actually not a true one. In fact, in all those wacky personality tests a person can take, I always test right down the middle of the road. I literally fall right on the line between introvert and extrovert.

And, on any given day, it's no surprise to those who spend a lot of time around me.

I love having friends over or attending an event. I enjoy hanging out with other people. I like throwing together a party.

But I also enjoy sitting on my couch, alone, reading a book. Or padding about my house all day in my pajamas, shunning phone calls, knocks on the door, and e-mail inquiries.

I've turned down invitations just because, mentally, I didn't feel like socializing. I've needed to stay in my house and rejuvenate more than I've needed to communicate some days.

There's a solace in that introvert side of me; it's the part of me that says, "I need to step back and just be in my space with my family."

Which is why, after a big social event, or after several weekends in a row where we are going and doing and filling our schedule full of parties and meetings and such, I tend to breathe that big sigh of relief.

I tend to find solace in the quiet.

I tend to enjoy being alone.

Hence why I was so surprised that this time, after almost four days straight of go-go-go, when I finally found myself alone, I missed it.

The extrovert in me popped out and screamed, "Where'd everybody go? We weren't done yet!"

The silence felt sad. It was more of a let-down than a reprieve.

And it was proof positive that I am one very confusing woman.

***

Ever missed something or someone you never thought you'd miss?

I find this happening to me more and more now that we live in a place where I have no family or friends I've known since childhood.

Lucky for us, our Navy family here, though we've only known them for a little more than year, has filled a huge void in our hearts and homes.

But it's still a lonely time when, in the silence of your peaceful house, you realize you'd give anything to be with the ones who've known you almost your entire life.

Sometimes, then, the quiet isn't so welcome.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Mama's in the House

My mommy is coming!

And, to be fair, my dad is, too.

Tomorrow, in fact.

I'm super excited. They're not coming for me, though.

They are coming for her.
Because, let's be honest, if my mother had her way, she'd come up here, take Ella, and never give her back. If it weren't for the fact that the baby needs my boobs, I'd probably never see my daughter again.

Still, for now, I'm OK with her hogging for the weekend. After all, they haven't seen her since she was a week old.
And, boy, how things have changed.

***

Hurricane Irene is, of course, skirting us, thank God, but we will be getting enough weather today that, likely, we'll lose power.

Especially considering this week alone, we've lost power a grand total of four times - only one of which was due to weather.

Because it's totally normal to lose power at 1 p.m. on a bright and sunny summer day, right?

Uh, yeah.

Sigh. Welcome to military housing, where construction is always done by the lowest bidder and thus, the reason why we currently live on what can only be described as one archaic, and extremely temperamental, power-grid.

Regardless, we're prepared. I've even put my precious Ella's behind in disposable diapers.

And you all know how I feel about those.

Let's just say that the idea of dirty cloth diapers sitting for days on end without the electricity to wash them?

Not anyone's idea of a good time.

Even this earthy, crunchy mama's.

Hopefully, the landfills will forgive me.

And hopefully, you will, too, should I have no Internet to blog come Monday.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

No Monster-In-Laws Here

Just plain old in-laws.

Which, by the way, I love.

I can't believe how lucky I am, actually. So many people have complaints, long-standing arguments, or deep-seated anger with their husband's side of the family.

Not me. I love my in-laws. (And, for the record, I'm pretty sure my husband loves his, too. No issues with my own parents, either.)

So I'm very excited they are currently in town, visiting us and - let's face it, we all know the real reason they're here - baby Ella.

So blogging will be sporadic through next week, of course.

They live far away, and we want to soak up as much quality time with them as we can.

However, I should still be able to read blogs, as my in-laws are more than willing to hold and play with my baby.

Heck, I might even be able to comment here or there.

Now there's a new-mom first.

***

Happy Weekend, everyone!

For a First-Time Father

My husband never knew his biological father.

The man, from what we know, up and left his mother some time right after she got pregnant with my husband.

He was raised by his mother for the first 11 years of his life. And then, when she passed away from cancer, he was raised by his aunt and uncle.

So, technically, my in-laws are his aunt, uncle, and cousins.

Not that it matters, as he's as much a part of their family as if he'd been born into it.

He was very blessed to be dealt the hand he was, despite how hard it seems to lose your only parent that young. He was still cared for and loved, even in her absence.

Far worse things happen to most boys who grow up in single-parent homes.

Still, the fact remains that, my husband never knew his father. And the tiny bits of information we've gleaned about the man make it seem as if he's probably better off never having known him, anyways.

By and large, men who leave women pregnant and alone are not exactly high up on our list of "People We'd Like to Have Over For Dinner." My husband came to peace with that long before meeting me.

It also helps that, thanks to his uncles, he didn't lack for sound male role models in his life. Plus, he always had his mother's family encouraging him, telling him that just because his father had made bad decisions, didn't mean he was destined to do the same.

He could be a good husband. He could be a good father. His father's legacy was not his own.

And, by and large, I'd wholeheartedly agree with them.

After all, he married me. And not once since the day I met him have I ever even considered he'd run away.

It's just not his style.

Granted, he's not perfect. He's known to leave laundry everywhere and hide candy-bar wrappers under the car's driver seat.

But when it counts, he's unfailingly loyal and hard-working and dedicated. He's sacrificing and loving and attentive. And he'd move heaven and Earth to help me, if that's what it took.

Honestly, I'm the luckiest woman, when I think about it, because I go to bed every single night knowing and trusting my husband.

Which is why I didn't hesitate, not even a little, at the thought of having children with them. I've never even given a passing worry to the fact that he might leave me. That he might do what his father did.

Again, it's simply not his style. And the last 30 weeks have been proof of that.

He's cleaned up after me when I couldn't "contain" my morning sickness. He's talked to my belly almost every night. He's assembled the world's most stubborn, antique crib, and he's sanded down and painted our changing table. He spent two hours swapping nursery furniture around till we got it "just so," and he waded through a baby store three times with me while we registered.

He was more excited than I was, at 20 weeks, when we found out we were having a baby girl. And he's the one who giggled like a school girl when he felt her kick for the first time.

I couldn't ask for more support, but then again, I'm not at all surprised.

You see, a few weeks after we found out we were pregnant, the hubs came home from work one night.

We were still in that "Can you believe we're really going to have a baby?" phase, and we spent a great amount of time together asking each other that very question.

We'd started to tell a select few family and friends, and he'd gone to work that very day to tell his commanding officer that we were expecting.

He'd told a few shipmates, too. In fact, they'd had a pretty thought-provoking conversation about it, he told me.

"You know what I realized today, babe, when I was talking to my friends about us having a baby?" he said to me.

"What?" I inquired, stirring the soup on the stove.

"That I never had a father. I mean, I never had a man who helped me come into this world. I never knew what it was like, as a little kid, to play with him or turn to him for help or see him as a part of my household. I never even got to call anyone "Daddy," he continued.

I nodded.

"And you know what?" he continued. "Today, I realized that now, I get to be something I never had. I get to be a father. Someone gets to call me 'Daddy.' Cool, huh?"

I stood there, speechless. Frankly, I was trying not to cry.

For I realized long ago how amazing it was that my husband had moved past bitterness when it came to his past and his own deadbeat dad.

But I wasn't expecting how amazing it would be for him to realize a dream that set him so far apart from that man he carried around in his own DNA.

He was going to get to be a Daddy. He wasn't scared. He wasn't worried. He was just happy about it.

That, right there, is why I never worried about him. That, right there, is how I knew he'd broken the cycle. That, right there, is how, when push comes to shove, I know he'll run to the side of his wife and child and not away from them.

He's already an amazing father, simply by virtue of being him; simply through the fact that he's stood up, as a man, and refuted a past that holds no bearing on what kind of husband and father he'll be in the future.

My Baby Girl is a lucky one. I am, too.

***

Twenty-six years ago today, my husband's own biological father wasn't there to meet the man he'd helped bring into this world. Today is my husband's birthday.

Blessedly, my husband is a better man for his past. He's not marked by it at all. At least not for the worst.

So, today, Baby Girl and I celebrate that. We celebrate the birth of the man that changed my life and the one who helped start hers!

Happy Birthday, Baby Love! We are so lucky to have you! We love you!

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

I Remember What It's Like...

...to shop for myself.

...to eat raw fish.

...to have a margarita with my chips and salsa.

...to not feel someone else's hiccups coming out of my behind.

...to have breasts that don't appear to be the homing ground for all my veins.

...to sleep soundly, on my stomach, through the night.

...to run five miles.

...to have a waist.

...to not be pregnant.

After all, it wasn't that long ago.

I remember vividly what it felt like to slide into my normal jeans, have a glass of wine, and eat a nice dinner out with my husband.

I wasn't worried about my weight. I wasn't worried about fetal alcohol syndrome. I wasn't worried about how an extra appetizer and tip were going to put us way over our monthly "eat-out" budget.

Those were good times. I loved those times.

But, the funny thing is, I'm OK never having them back.

Sure, I miss my old wardrobe. I miss being able to shop for me. I miss throwing all my cares aside on a Friday night and saying, "I feel like sushi. Wanna go get some sushi, love?"

But I don't miss it that much.

When I'm with my single friends, or, better yet, my non-pregnant friends, I do notice the differences.

I mean, they aren't walking around like crazy people trying to budget "baby" into their daily expenses. They can drink espresso if they're tired. They can order an over-priced piece of red meat, medium rare, if they so choose.

And, sometimes, I think, "That was me. Remember that? Yeah, that was fun. I loved living like that."

Because, honestly, I truly did. I look back on it, and I wouldn't give it up for the world.

I'm amazingly blessed that I got your typical college, then single-girl, experience.

Then, I got married. To the love of my life. He makes my world better every day.

And now, I'm carrying around his baby. She's going to change me forever.

I've moved on. I'm in a different season.

And, yet, I'm still the same girl who doled out money on monthly pedicures. And I'm still the same girl who spent all of Spring Break 2006 walking around a cruise ship in a bikini. (Yeah, that's never happening again.)

I look back with fond-ness on those memories. I loved that part of my life.

But I don't miss it. Not at all.

As weird as it sounds, I actually like eating at home. I enjoy balancing the budget and shopping in bulk. I get a thrill from cutting coupons, and I'd rather walk through every baby section of every store I frequent before I veer into anything that looks remotely like something I'd enjoy for myself.

Case in point: My special delivery on Monday.
I literally jumped for joy when I opened up a package to find our cloth diaper order had finally arrived.

And I've been waiting with what can only be described as bated breath and immense anticipation for today, when...and here's where it really gets exciting, people!....I get to wash and organize all these cute little suckers into their proper nursery-designated place!

Wow, how things have changed.

I was talking to a friend of mine last week who isn't married, who said to me that, when she does find the right person one day, she's worried she'll struggle with the fact that marriage involves thinking of someone else as much as you think of yourself.

She stopped me in my tracks with that statement.

Because it's so, so true. Parenthood is the exact same way, in fact.

But the funny thing is, even though I can be as selfish as the next person, in my house and my marriage and in this time in my life, it's actually not that hard.

It's not that big of a deal to think about my husband's needs. It's not even that big of a deal to think about my un-born baby's needs.

Over the last month, I can't tell you how many times I've had to say, "I'm sorry. I can't come. We don't have it in the budget for this month."

Or, "I wish I could. But I'm going to have a brand-new baby at that point. And I'm not sure I can take her that far away from her father."

Or, "I'd love to. But these days, it's just easier and cheaper for us to stay at home tonight."

Sometimes I have a twinge of regret. Sometimes I wish we didn't have to let others down.

But, in the end, I'm never any unhappier for it.

Blessedly, I didn't have to worry about a husband's needs when I was in college, living my single-girl lifestyle. I wasn't pregnant or caring for a newborn, either.

I got to make my own, based-solely-on-me choices then.

Choices that didn't involve turning down parties or dinners or expensive activities with friends.

If I hadn't had that, I'd probably be really ticked right now, too.

I'd be mad that I hadn't had a time in my life where I could live on almost nothing so I could buy a new top. Where I could use self-tanner with wanton abandon before a trip to the beach. Where I could stay up all hours of the night talking and still fully function the next day.

But I did have it. In that season of life, I got it. All of it.

I sucked it all up and lived that life to the fullest and loved every second of it.

Just like, right now, I'm sucking up every second of my new season.

I'm living every cloth-diapering moment to it's fullest and reveling in the fact this Friday night, we'll probably make sandwiches and watch a movie on our couch.

And you know what? I'm gonna love every second of that, too.

***

Do you miss your "old" life? Or is your life now just as good? Or, heck, better? Let's share!

Happy Thursday, everyone!

I Kinda Miss It

On Saturday morning, I woke up to find an e-mail from on old student of mine, who is halfway through her first year of college.

She wrote:

Mrs. C - I am taking Random Intro to Communications Course this semester with Professor Random. Thank you so much for all you have taught me. I feel like you have set me up for success in this course. I am scoring really well compared to my classmates on our assignments. It has become a relatively low-stress class for me, while it is freaking everyone else out. Thank you!!! - C.B.

Immediately after reading it, I broke into tears.

Sure, part of it was the pregnancy hormones, but another part of it was the fact that I was truly touched.

Teaching high-school-ers, I always say, is the best and worst job I've ever had.

I lived through certifiable nightmares, at times, wondering how on Earth I'd ever gotten into education and hoping and praying all my students and I'd live to see another day.

But then, something small would happen - a kid would get into their dream college; a struggling student would bring up their SAT Verbal score; a child in need would open up about their feelings - and bam! I'd be right back to the girl who walked into her classroom as a first-year teacher.

Idealistic.

Hopeful.

Reaching out to each and every kid with open arms, excited about the subject I was teaching.

I lived for these little moments.

The laugh following a literary analogy. A journal entry that showed they listened. A formerly lazy student showing up for an optional study session.

I adored what I did when that happened.

Truly, it was never about the kids. I didn't burn out in education because of my students.

Sure, they drove me crazy at times. But a vast majority of my frustrations as a teacher stemmed from the system - the bureaucracy, the school boards, the principals, my fellow teachers, the budget cuts, and the parents.

They made it very hard for teachers to just teach.

And that's what I wanted to do.

So, as I've said before, I left that dream. Burned out and jaded.

Loving "my kids" but thrilled to be focusing on other parts of my adult life.

So as my last group of senior students graduated this past spring, I packed up my bags, moved to South Carolina to follow my husband's budding Navy career, and found a job working as a fitness trainer - a job I'd held on the side for years just to make some extra cash.

Both the hubs and I discussed it. We decided that, for the next few years, I'd continue to work part-time, while he worked what can inadequately be described as double over-time, and we'd start on our family.

And, so far, minus a few bumps in the road, our plan has worked.

We're pregnant, expecting our first child, and I'm working 20 to 30 hours a week - a vast majority of which I can actually bring my child to work with me once he/she is born.

We've been immensely blessed.

I, honestly, am getting to live out my dream to be a stay-at-home mom, as well as take care of the cooking, cleaning, and household duties in a reasonable fashion, instead of squeezing them in - poorly, I might add - after working an exhausting 15-hour workday at the school.

It's exactly what my family needs right now.

And because of that, I couldn't be happier.

Except, occasionally, I get an e-mail. A letter. A message from a kid I taught.

And, even though I don't admit it, I kind of start to miss it.

Not the the bureaucracy, the school boards, the principals, my fellow teachers, the budget cuts, and the parents, but the kids.

I miss the kids, and I miss the moments.

I miss the break-throughs that come from working with such a messy, dysfunctional age-group known as "teenagers."

I miss the growth and magic that occurs over one year together in a classroom, where students drop attitudes, start to learn, and then attach themselves to your heart, so that by the time they're ready to move on and walk out your classroom door, you've started to really love them, and you're actually sad to see them go.

I miss the very rare "thank you."

The e-mail that comes in on a Saturday morning that tells me, "Hey, you made a difference for me."

Not that it happens often. And not that the e-mail I received on Saturday was really all that special.

I have news for you: C.B. would have been fine without me as a teacher. The reason she's so successful in her college course is because she's a good, smart student, and she was like that three years ago when I met her.

But the fact that she remembers me, the fact she remembers what I taught her, pulls me back in even now.

Even when I'm excited to be on this new journey of motherhood. Even when I'm thrilled to be growing and caring for my family in my own, new way. Even when I'm ecstatic to work at a job where I can leave my stress at the end of the day and go home unscathed.

But despite all that, the classroom still haunts me a little. The teacher in me, burned out and ready for something different, still isn't dead yet.

And, honestly, I don't think she ever will be.

Because I still get a thrill when I see an old student doing well.

I still get excited when I run into students, and they're excited to see me.

And I still get pumped when I get a "thank you" from a kid I knew would make it all along.

So, yeah, I miss being a teacher.

And something tells me, I probably always will.

***

This isn't to say that I'm not thrilled with my place in life. I wouldn't trade it for the world, in fact. But it's been a trade-off, and though it's a worthy sacrifice, now that I'm more than six months out from the decision, I can honestly say I get nostalgic about the "old me" sometimes.

Luckily, all avenues aren't closed completely. Once we're done having kids - which, granted, might not be for awhile - I may go back to teaching once our babies are all of school age.

This, of course, is assuming we don't decide to home-school our children - a possibility we haven't totally ruled out yet.

So, no, the classroom isn't totally sealed off for me. Yet.

Time will tell what happens in that part of my life.

And for now, I'll simply have to live for those e-mails, those brief glimpses back at the "old me" that come through every once in a while on a Saturday morning.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

A Good Man

On Wednesday night, my best friend, B, called.

I answered, distracted; I was editing Thursday's blog post, in fact.

Her teary voice brought me back to reality.

And then, with the words, "Dude, my dad's died," everything screeched to a halt.

I literally screamed, "WHAT?"

And then I felt my jaw flop open and something else inside me yelp, "NO!"

I immediately went into shock. And outrage. And pure bewilderment.

And then, finally, settled on a useless prayer for my best friend, silently repeating over and over and over again, "Not B! Don't let this happen to B! She doesn't deserve this! Not B!"

I managed to eke out the almost pointless, "I'm so sorry," before taking instructions about further friends I needed to contact for her.

I sat on my couch alone, ghost-white, and dialed their numbers, delivering the stomach-dropping news.

Within five minutes, we'd all begun figuring out how we'd get from North Florida, Phoenix, Charleston, Philadelphia, Tampa, Orlando, and New York, to a city north of Miami to be with her.

And all of us, all of us, kept repeating, aloud to each other this time, "Not B! Don't let this happen to B! She doesn't deserve this! Not B!"

I selfishly prayed this off my best friend and on to anyone else.

After all, as another friend mentioned later that night on the phone, "We shouldn't be calling each other about this. We should be talking of babies and weddings and houses and new jobs. Our friends shouldn't be dealing with this."

But we were.

Which is why we all set off the next day, by planes and car, to get to B, knowing that death is hardest on the living, and knowing that B herself would move heaven and Earth to be with us should the situation be reversed.

I found myself crying all the more once I got on my airplane, remembering how B's dad had picked out the wine for my wedding; how, on my first trip to New York to visit B, he'd called us every few hours to give us restaurant recommendations in his old stomping grounds; how he'd joked around with us when we were all college roommates living in a sparsely furnished townhouse.

How he'd raised one of the most kind, beautiful, special women I know, who didn't deserve to lose a father in her 20s.

Oddly enough, I felt my first real movements from inside my baby belly on that flight, and I cried all the more, realizing that in a few short months, I'd bring a child into a world where life isn't fair.

Where good men die unexpectedly.

Where a good man had left his children, his wife, and his family far too soon.

Frankly, through my tears, it made me angry, for I know we are not promised forever. And I know that all of us could wake up tomorrow and find a loved one gone.

Still, I was angry because I didn't know what to do.

Nothing could make this better - the feeling of loss B and her family were feeling, the hole left in their lives.

And so, silently sitting in my coach seat, I railed against the fact that God has veiled death in mystery - as a protective mechanism, I am sure - but thus leaving me incapable of understanding what to say to B and what to do for B to make this time of shock easier in her life.

But the fact remained, I couldn't do anything.

Instead, I simply hugged her, cried when she cried, willed her to hold it together as she delivered her eulogy, and joked around in a vain attempt for her to realize that her dad would have wanted her to still have laughter in her world.

But I watched her face and knew that nothing we did, no flowers we brought, no food we tried to coax down her throat, would soothe the fact that she'd lost her father.

Still, looking at her, I knew she'd carry on. In that moment, she was stronger than all of us. More resilient, too.

She was still standing, and she was resolutely vowing to go back to teaching and living and loving and caring for her brother and mother in the aftermath of all this.

How? I'm not quite sure.

The thought of carrying on without my own father paralyzed me.

The world does not need one less good man.

And that's what it lost last week.

A good man, who raised a wonderful woman - my best friend, the maid of honor in my wedding, the person who stopped dead in the middle of a busy New York street while on the phone with me and cried tears of joy when I told her we were pregnant.

I'll always be grateful to him, for without him, I wouldn't have her.

And, now, I pray that the world knows more men like him - good men - who can raise kind children, love unconditionally, and shine a light of happiness in this world where there often seems to be an always-threatening darkness.

May we always remember that there are good men among us. And to treasure them while we can. For they - and he, B's dad - are what leave a lasting, powerful impact on us all, even when we least expect it.

And when they are gone, they and that powerful impact they have, will be sorely missed.

And So It Begins

My father vacuums with a vengeance.

He scoots under tables, moves chairs, and flings rugs with a power the likes of which many have never seen.

Dog hair, bread crumbs, and lost buttons don't stand a chance when they cross his path.

He's The Vacuum Man.

It's a gift, really. I've never seen a man clean quite like it. After all, when the mess really calls for it, he's not afraid to break out the big guns: His Shop-Vac.

That thing could suck up a watermelon; it leaves nothing in its wake.

My father loves it.

I have early memories of my father, on his hands and knees, crawling throughout the family car in his paint-spattered shirt and shorts.

Shot-Vac-ing his heart out.

That's my dad, leaving no stone un-turned and no dust un-sucked.

It was always a given in my young life. At any moment, my father could be found lying on the floor, watching M.A.S.H., or Shot-Vac-ing loose dog hair off the family golden retriever.

He had deep-cleaning purpose and made no apologies for it.

That was - and, really, still is - my father.

And, as of late, it's me, too.

These days, instead of looking in the mirror and seeing my mother, the reflection has changed.

Genders, that is.

Against all odds, I have become my father.

Because just yesterday, I found myself crawling. On my hands and knees. In the kitchen. Hair askew, wearing pants splattered with old scrap-booking glue.

Dust-busting.

Dust-busting my 20-something heart out.

Using my hand-held, dog-hair-sucking device, I whipped about, pulling grit and dirt off the floor as if by sheer will. And having a darn good time doing it, too.

source

I love that little vacuum. On almost any day of the week, you can find me on all fours, Dust-busting my baseboards.

I sweep the kitchen up and suck up the pile of dirt with my hand-held best friend. I vacuum crumbs from our couches with it. And, once in a great while, I go straight to the source:

I've actually been known to "brush" Marvin the Dog with the Dust-Buster, just like my father, our old family dog, and his trusty Shot-Vac many years before.

These days, my Dust-Buster is like my right-hand man, an extension of myself, a necessity in my battle against dust, dirt, and the soot my husband manages to traipse in from who-knows-where.

Be still my beating heart, but I've never felt like this before about a simple appliance.

I also have a vacuum, a broom, and a Swiffer - most of which have served me well over the years. (Though the Swiffer and I have a tumultuous relationship - I'm never quite sure what, and if, it's actually cleaning.)

But this? This little red Dirt Devil? This I love. Love love love.

Love so much that I'll crawl on my hands and knees to get at eye level with the beauty of this device's precise suctioning abilities.

Call me crazy, but I've embraced it.

I've embraced the fact that I take enjoyment in sucking up dog hair. I've embraced the fact that it was the best $27 I ever spent. I've embraced the fact that this does, in fact, make me an old fogey who can actually list "Dust-busting" as a hobby.

And, when all is said and done, I've also embraced the fact that I've become just like my father.

Attached at the hip to my vacuum of choice and loving it.

Viva la Suction!

***

Note: I received no compensation for this post. I simply love my Dirt Devil, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Underwear Aren't for Sleeping and Other Things Our Parents Taught Us

Life is but a series of lessons learned, wouldn't you say?

We proceed on through our years here on Earth and learn that fire burns, high-school popularity fades, and marriage renders the most logical of couples sentimental.

Courtesy of those around us, we also eventually learn to heed red lights, Constitutional amendments, and social mores that, if left unguided, might otherwise allude us.

Thank heavens, as children and adults, we learn by example. And a severe tongue-lashing should role-modeling behaviors not cut it.

Parents themselves are our biggest role models. And, in most cases, the most likely people to give us a tongue-lashing should we stray too far from the norm.

From the time we're born, parents teach us the most important lessons in life. About loyalty and love and faith and family and trust and honor and respect.

But, in almost the same breath, they also teach us some of the biggest quackery you'll ever find - the kind of stuff you won't see in the pages of an encyclopedia, Bible, or farmer's almanac.

Seriously, parents influence not only our very core, but also the silliest of our daily practices.

There are things all of us do simply because our parents told us to do them, regardless of their rationale.

For instance, I have several friends who won't drink water from plastic cups, all because their parents considered it in poor taste.

Or take my husband, who won't eat dessert without coffee, all because, to his parents, coffee was an after-dinner drink.

And I even know a girl who spreads ketchup on her burgers, but only with a knife, all because her father preferred she not to squirt the condiment directly onto the beef patty or bun.

Crazy, right? But, to them, these are tried-and-true practices. All because it was what their parents taught them.

And, trust me, I am no exception.

For instance, I have guilt when I reach for underwear before bed.

When putting on pajamas, I rarely wear a pair of drawers, if you know what I mean. The bed is strictly a no-panties zone.

All thanks to my mom.

You see, as long as I can remember, my mother has preached from her figurative pulpit that people should not wear underpants to bad, simply because everything "down there" needs that time to breathe.

Seriously, she says this. She still says this. All the time.

My mother's not-so-secret secret to healthy nether regions? Skip underwear before going to bed.

She's downright religious in her of practice bare-bummed sleeping. And she feels everyone else should prescribe to her nightly air-out time, too.

But, as if that's not embarrassing enough on it's own, she's not in the least bit apologetic about it, either.

She often sent my brothers and I out and about in the house as babies without diapers on, letting us aerate our normally swaddled hineys.

And she simply expected us to keep this practice up throughout our adult years.

While other little girls were learning how to French braid and bake bread from their mums, my mother was teaching me to actively shirk panties.

Talk about a legacy.

Still, my father wasn't about to be out-down.

While not quite as brash as my mother, my also father instilled in us some real gems of completely useless information, for which, I'm sure, we'll pay for for the rest of our lives.

Take, for instance, my father's pre-occupation with feet.

Women's feet, in particular.

The world's most beautiful woman could walk by him, but if she had rather large and/or odd feet, he wouldn't even notice her.

At least not the rest of her.

In fact, the only reaction he'd have would be to comment, "Oh, man, did you get a look at her feet? What boats!"

This has happened on multiple occasions, people. Multiple occasions. He has openly voiced concern over the size of people's feet.

He's even gone so far as to make comments about the hideous nature of a certain woman's feet while the rest of the red-blooded men in the room ogle her various other, far more attractive features.

And, thus, he's so freaked out about ugly feet that he's made the rest of us paranoid about ugly feet, too.

Once, I actually apologized to the hubs about chipping my toe-nail polish and neglecting to fix it post haste.

The man looked at me like I'd lost my ever-loving mind.

And it was all my foot-loving father's fault, as I was raised believing that I was supposed to have clean, well-kept, dainty feet at any and all times.

I'm a lady, and according to my father, ladies have nice-looking feet.

Even if they don't wear underwear to bed.

***

Oh, my parents. They are a hoot, really. Which is why I really felt the need to air their dirty laundry today. Who doesn't want to know more about foot-loving, underwear-hating people on a Friday?

Plus, today is my father's birthday!

Which is why I've gifted him with a wonderful expose about his foot fetish. You're welcome, Dad!

I threw my mother under the bus, as well, because back in June I missed her wishing her a happy birthday on the old blog, what with all the chaos of moving to a new state and getting adjusted to military life.

So, seriously, Happy Birthday, Mom and Dad! I love you both so much!

You really were the best parents a girl could ask for.

Not only have you taught me to keep my tootsies well-groomed and my bum well-aired, you've also taught me many valuable, eternal life lessons - ones much important than those explained above.

And, rest assured, those valuable life lessons seemed to have worked.

I haven't divorced the hubs, run off to join a nudist circus, and started to peddle narcotics on the side.

Yet.

I'd say you can count that as a parenting success. Happy Birthday!

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

Another Hit

It has been a week.

It has been a heckuva week.

Obviously, I wasn't at my best on Monday.

And, then, in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, we received another blow. A phone call, telling us that my husband's beloved grandmother had passed away.

She was his only grandmother, and she was a huge part of his life growing up.

She helped raise him; he adored her. Just like all of her children and grandchildren did.

She was iconic and strong and way ahead of her time.

They don't make them like her anymore.

One of my only regrets is that I joined the family too late to really get to know her. Her health was already failing when I met her grandson.

Still, the stories others told of her still inspired me.

When the hubs joined the military, she, along with my own grandmothers, were a huge motivators for me. Her story told me I could do this. Her story told me that other women had handled far more than what I was being called to manage as a military spouse.

An Army veteran herself, after her husband died young, she raised four children alone, all while working and getting her master's degree in nursing, while living in a town away from family and friends and in a world that didn't have the help in place that today's single mothers receive.

She then went on to help raise her beautiful grandchildren, including my husband, and serve as a matriarch and source of strength for her family for years and years, outliving other loved ones and doctor's expectations.

Like I said, they just don't make them like her anymore.

One of the first things I learned about my husband was how important his grandmother was to him. How much he loved her.

And ever since I fell in love with him, I've been dreading this day, worried it would break him.

Instead, he's shown more strength than I knew he had. He's been composed and level-headed and steadfast in dotting his i's and crossing his t's so we can leave soon and celebrate his beloved grandmother's life with his family this weekend.

Thankfully, our new Navy family has gone above and beyond to help us at this time.

His commanding officers and chiefs pulled strings to get us to Arkansas for the funeral, listening to him talk about his relationship with his grandmother and understanding her importance in his life.

My Navy wife friends rallied, offering bring us food and drive us to the airport.

And my husband's shipmates offered to house-and-dog sit for as long as we needed.

In all honesty, while mourning the loss of a mother-figure, we've also felt tremendously blessed.

Our plane leaves later today. We're spending the weekend with his family so we can attend the funeral. We'll be back late Sunday.

Thank you, again, for all the support you all sent our way earlier this week and for all the love and prayers you sent yesterday via Twitter. You all are such a blessing.

I'll be back to blogging Monday, once we return from our trip. Hope you all have a wonderful weekend.

The Battle of the Sexes

I’ve been hankering to make my own headboard for a while now.

According to the crafting powers-that-be, all you need is some ply-board, fabric, a roll of bunting, and a staple gun, and you, too, can be a furniture-creating phenom.

And nothing speaks to my soul more than cheap-and-easy decorating fame.

So, on Sunday afternoon, I grabbed my husband and dragged him to Lowe's Home Improvement and Wal-Mart Super Center.

And on the way there, I gave him my own version of The Talk:

"Babe, you know how I feel about Lowe's. All those men? With all those saws and tool belts? They freak me out. And the smell in that place? Ick. I can't stand it. So I'm gonna need you to handle the ply-board. I don't care what it looks like. Just make sure they cut it to 77 inches wide and 48 inches tall. Then we'll head to Wal-Mart's craft section, and I'll take it from there."

So my dear, sweet husband obliged.

He had the men with the saws and tool belts cut the ply-board to 77 inches wide and 48 inches tall and strap it on the roof of the car.

And off we went, all the way to the craft department at Wal-Mart Super Center, where I deemed it appropriate to take back over.

I examined the bolts of fabric and narrowed down my choice to a leaf-textured chocolate brown cotton.

I took the bolt up to the fabric counter, the hubs following behind obliging, all while peering over at the games and technology section longingly.

In my head, I did some quick math, knowing I needed the fabric to stretch across the 77-inch ply-board. Then, I proceeded to place my order with the craft-department employee - a sweet elderly lady:

Me: Ma'am, I'd like two yards of this fabric, please.
Hubs: Wait, babe...
Me: No, babe, you order fabric in yards. And I want to two yards. Trust me, I've got this. I told you I could handle this part of the process, didn't I?
Sweet Elderly Lady (SEL): Oh, yes, honey, she's got it. This is her department. You men always want to order this stuff in feet, but back here, we women deal in yards.
Hubs: Yes, ma'am, but, well, but, um...
Me: Exactly, babe. Just leave this one to the ladies. We know this area.
SEL: Oh, yes. We know this department just like you all know the sports department. It's a foreign language to you, back here. Just like the car department speaks a different language than us ladies.
Hubs: True, true. But, the thing is, babe... Ma'am, the thing is...
Me: Yes. That's exactly it! He has no idea about this stuff! Baby, trust me, I can handle this part. I need two yards. So two yards I'm going to get. Just leave it alone, OK?

And just like that, I took my two yards of fabric, thanked the woman and walked away.

My husband followed behind, laughing, until, finally, he couldn't take it any longer.

"Baby," he says, "how many feet are in a yard?

"Three, babe," I smugly retorted, "and I got two yards, so that's six feet, which is plenty, because, with 12 inches in a foot, that gives me 72...inches...Oh, crap!"

The color drained from my face, leaving me paralyzed and clutching a sheaf of fabric that was five inches too short to cover the 77-inch-wide ply-board I'd been so anal-retentive about purchasing at Lowe's.

Meanwhile, my husband couldn't stop laughing.

"I was going to say something," he gasped out between guffaws, "but you all were so self-righteous about women owning the darn fabric department that I couldn't get a word in edgewise, so I figured I'd let you learn the hard way."

I swear, it was all I could do not to throw the 5-inches-too-short fabric right in his face.

Because, heaven help me, I was stuck with two yards of now-useless fabric and - worse yet - he was right.

My husband was right. I was wrong.

It was a world gone mad!

Still, I finally managed to eat my pride and regret my support of such antiquated gender roles, before muttering all the way through the Wal-Mart check-out line, "I can't believe it. But you were right. I was wrong. I just should have listened to you. It's so hard to admit it, but, baby, you were so right."

My husband has never strutted with such pride before.

His chest was puffed out. His gaze was raised. He even ribbed me in the elbows and told the cashier "She admitted it! I was right!"

Then, we went to leave. The sliding doors began to move apart under the "Exit" sign.

But, before they could slide all the way open, my husband made his move.

And ran smack dab into the middle of one bullet-proof sliding glass door.

All was right in the world once again.

***

The good news is, using an old fitted sheet, some ribbon and both our creative brains, we still managed to fashion a headboard out of the fabric we purchased.

It's hard to see, but we used chocolate and aqua ribbon to hide the seam between the chocolate fabric and the tan bed sheet. And, yes, that was my husband's idea.

This prompted my husband to make periodic trips back to the bedroom throughout the day yesterday and mutter, "Darn! Look at the handsome headboard! Who helped you make that, babe?"

We'll see how long that takes before it gets old.

***

Today, over on my other blog, I'm talking about why I choose to stay fit. And I want to know why you all do, too. Plus, Crystal Light Pure Fitness and BlogHer are including another chance to win a $100 gift card. So head on over and don't miss out!

***

Lastly, Happy Belated Father's Day to my father. I didn't mention this last week, but my father is almost single-handedly responsible for making sure our move to South Carolina went as smoothly as it did.

Plus, my dad is this blog's biggest fan. He's probably the only person who reads every single post. Every single day. Seriously. I'm not kidding.

They don't get any better than that!

Thank you, Dad, for all you do. I love you more than words can say.

A New Home and a Free Plunger

I run a tight ship when I move.

A born scheduler, I become even more so when undergoing a large project.

So when Moving Day rolled around last Friday, I was in "Go" Mode.

Or, rather, "I'm Finally Moving to My Husband, and I Haven't Slept In Weeks, So, For the Love of Pete, Let's Go" Mode.

All in all, I was not a particularly pleasant person.

But there was a schedule to follow. A house to be moved and then assembled. A husband to get to.

Which, thank the Lord, all occurred. Finally. But not without some trials and tribulations, which, let's face it, accompany almost ever big life change, no matter how well-planned they are.

After all, we were all working with little sleep, lots of tools, and a malfunctioning toilet. Things were bound to get a little crazy.

Which is why I chronicled it all so nicely for you all. (Don't worry. You can thank me later. Or, rather, throw things at me.)

Because, seriously, who doesn't love a story involving poor bathroom amenities?

Without further ado, I give you Moving 2010: How I Earned a Free Plunger.

On Friday, at 12:35 p.m. - I walked out of my final day of teaching at the Anonymous Florida High School. I cried and remembered yet again that moving is hard.

1:15 p.m. - I took our dog Marvin to the groomer, hoping to clean him within an inch of his life before he went into the new house the following day. Due to nerves and his severe fear of baths and PetSmart, all 85 pounds of him proceeded to lie down on the floor and whimper as soon as I got him there, like he was involved in some sort of doggie sit-in. When the only male groomer in the place finally managed to all but hog-tie him through the door, Marvin then started farting with anxiety and protest. Several people stared at me as I beat a hasty retreat out of there, worried that canine gas was a bad moving omen.

2:35 p.m. - My parents arrive, driving a Budget truck for all our belongings. My mother hops out carrying a basket of pound cake. My father hops out as if he's about to pack the heck out of the whole world, as he and I have had an ongoing bet about whether or not the truck will be big enough to move everything we own up to South Carolina. It is in this moment that I realize I've inherited both of my parent's worst traits; my mother's desire to micro-manage and my father's intensity.

3:35 p.m. - Several choice words have been uttered as we load the truck with furniture. My father begins to sweat, as half the truck is full, though half our possessions have not yet been loaded.

4:15 p.m. - More loading occurs, and by this time, my father seems really worried. Despite all his promises that "It's all going to fit. I promise," things are looking scary. My father arranges two tons worth of furniture-shaped puzzle pieces while, for the first time, I regret the fact that I might actually be right.

4:35 p.m. - My father is panicking. So. Much. Stuff.

4:45 p.m. - My father appears to be having a coronary. There is no way all our stuff is making it in the truck. No flippin' way.

5:00 p.m. - Against all odds, the truck is finally loaded. To the bursting point, granted. But it's loaded. Luckily, two of my friends are accompanying us on our move, and they're driving a pick-up truck. With the ability to load a futon frame and the Shot-Vac in their truck, my father wins our bet. But barely.

7:00 p.m. - We head out for pizza so I can say good-bye to the special people I've grown to love while living in North Florida. While sad to leave such wonderful people, I don't remember much of it. I'm now officially in a Moving Coma.

10:00 p.m. - We head home to all go to bed.

Early on Saturday, at 1:30 a.m. - I'm awake.

2:30 a.m. - I'm still awake.

3:15 a.m. - Nope, I'm not sleeping.

3:45 a.m. - The alarm goes off, and I leap out of bed because - drum roll, please - I never fell asleep.

4:15 a.m. - We load into our respective cars and head out, never you mind that I hadn't slept a wink.

6:15 a.m. - By the time we hit the Florida-Georgia border, I realize I forgot my wedding dress.

6:16 a.m. - I debate turning around but decide against it. I feel horrible that, among everything else, I left that, as the owners of the home shouldn't have to deal with my abandoned wedding dress. (Sorry, Harmony!)

7:00 a.m. - I realize that Marvin is having a small doggy panic attack in the backseat. He's drooling all over everything, shaking, and whimpering. Apparently, he doesn't travel well.

7:30 a.m. - We stop for breakfast and give Marvin a sedative, er, a walk.

11:30 a.m. - We arrive at the Navy base, and we're thrilled. I hug my husband, and Marvin puts on a disappointing show of pretending he recognizes him. Apparently, all my warnings of "We're going to see Daddy!" went unheeded.

11:31 a.m. - We realize we've lost my father, who is driving the Budget truck - the only vehicle, mind you, that has GPS in it.

Noon - My father finally shows up, but only after a) stopping to go the bathroom at Subway right outside the gates of the base, unaware how close he was, and b) getting lost on the base, due to construction. So much for GPS.

12:45 p.m. - Two groups part ways along gender lines: My friend, my mother, and I go to find a bed frame, while my brother, father, husband and other friend go out and do manly things like weigh the truck and take naps on the carpet of the unfurnished house.

1:15 p.m - The ladies and I stumble upon a Big Lots nicer than one I've ever seen. We also find a Publix - the world's most wonderful grocery store - and a gym. I begin to feel at home.

2:45 p.m. - We all reconvene and begin unpacking.

3:15 p.m. - People begin calling my name right and left, all wanting to know "If I wanted this here," or "What should I do with this empty box?" or "What's for dinner?" The six of them - God love them - were worse than my classrooms full of students. I began to feel very overstimulated.

7:15 p.m. - I realize it took me four hours to unpack my clothes because every time I'd get momentum going, someone else would need something. As understandable as that was, I vow never to move myself again. I can't handle the stress.

8:00 p.m. - I hear a cracking noise coming from our new living room, and then my husband's voice, yelling, "Babe, I have to tell you something, and you're going to be mad at me, and that's OK." Oh, how well he knows me.

8:01 p.m. - My husband and brother confess that they've messed up the assembly of one of my new shelving units. I try not to panic.

8:02 p.m. - My father fixes said shelving unit, redeeming himself for almost miscalculating the size of the moving truck.

9:30 p.m. - We finally stop for dinner and showers.

10:35 p.m. - My friend emerges from the shower bright pink and slighlty rug-burned. Apparently, we have quite the water pressure in these parts. My brother then ventures into the "water death chamber" and emerges talking about how the pressure hurt "the boys." This then provoked my mother to scoff and then comment that the pressure also hurt "the girls." I proceed to run and hide.

Midnight - We all finally go to sleep.

On Sunday, at 8:00 a.m. - We head out to breakfast and then say good-bye to our good friends, who are returning to Florida that afternoon. I cried a lot, as this is the couple we've lived with for the past year and some of our closest friends. I realize for the first time that I'm indeed moving out of the state I know so well, filled with all the people I love. It saddens me.

11:00 a.m. - My sadness turns to anger, however, when I return to our new home and find that my brother has overflowed my toilet. He tries to console me by telling me that, at least, I got a free plunger out of the deal because he bought one in effort to fix the mess. I don't feel better.

11:30 a.m. - We continue unpacking, my mother and I run errands to and fro to get things I didn't realize I'd need, and my father hangs curtain rods. At this point, I'm pretty sure my brother and husband were avoiding me, in an effort to stay out of my wrath.

5:00 p.m. - I head to the grocery, after realizing the one on base is not open on Mondays. Seeing as how my husband and family are known for their ability to consume food, I figured I'd better go get some. Stat.

6:00 p.m. - The packing continues.

8:00 p.m. - We have dinner, finish unpacking and go to bed.

5:00 a.m. - I awake to drive my husband to work.

6:30 a.m. - My family begins to rouse, and we all head out to breakfast.

9:00 a.m. - They leave town. And me with it. It serves as yet another reminder that I'm actually staying here. I run errands and put the last finishing touches on the house.

3:30 p.m - I sit down for a late lunch and literally pass out in my food. I'm so tired, I can't think straight.

4:30 p.m. - I awake, disoriented, and realize I'm in my new house. In an entirely new state. All alone. With a free plunger.

Whoa.
***
I am so very blessed. For the most part, our house is completely put together. And, though I give them a hard time, it is all thanks to the friends and family who worked all weekend to make it happen, humoring even my most silly requests and allowing me to keep unpacking even when our bodies told us not stop and rest. That, my friends, is love.

Thank you Mom, Dad, Brett, Autumn and Adam! The thought of doing all this without you all makes me cry! You all were such a gift this weekend!

And as for the hubs and me, we are just so thrilled to be in South Carolina. Currently, I'm just working through the adjustment of living in a new state and playing catch up with everything else. I hope to be caught up on blogs this afternoon, as well as return e-mails and phone calls the rest of the week. Sorry for delay. I promise to be back in working shape in no time. And I'll reveal more about the move and our new lives over the next couple of weeks, too!

Lastly, remember, there's a big giveaway going on over at my other blog! Make sure you check it out and earn a chance at a $100 gift card!

Happy Wednesday everyone!

Bad Odds

I am not a gambling woman.

Instead of taking a big jump right into the deep end of life, I'm much more likely to stick my big toe in and test out the water first.

I just don't like to take unnecessary risks.

But, sometimes, I speak a little too soon and end up falling into the deep end of life by wrangling my way into a bet that I probably can't keep.

Except for the ever-annoying fact that I try to be a woman of my word.

Take last weekend.

My baby brother, Brad, was telling me about how he was struggling in his science classes.

Brad and I in Annapolis, Maryland last weekend

Having just finished his freshmen year at the Air Force Academy, he wasn't falling that far from the family tree: Our parents, my other brother, and I are all liberal arts, social-science thinkers and degree-holders.

Not a one of us had aspirations or realistic hopes of being a physicist.

Still, Brad, being a bit of a talker (I have no idea where he got that from) kept waxing on about how, all struggles with science aside, he still wanted to graduate in the top-100 members of his graduating class in three years.

In military academies, being in the top-10 percent of your class is a Big Deal, and, if you know Brad, you know he wants nothing more than to be a Big Deal.

So, being the big sister and educator that I am - and struck by a really bad case of verbal diarrhea - I made him an offer he couldn't refuse:

"If you graduate in the top-100 members of your class, I'll name one of my children after you."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew it was too late.

I saw the sparkle hit his eyes.

A challenge.

The boy likes a challenge.

Almost as much as he likes being stubborn.

Because, my friends, this boy is class-A, 100-percent stubborn. (Again, I have no idea where he got that from.)

We shook on it, before I hastily retreated to find my cell phone and call my husband and tell him that, at some point, I had a hunch we'd be naming one of your children Brad.

Because while my brother is nowhere near the top-100 students in the Air Force Academy - yet - I have a feeling he will be in three years. Because the kid is almost more stubborn and challenge-driven than me.

And that's saying a lot.

Which is why, in the case that my husband and I manage to produce a house full of girls, I found my family coming up with a back-up plan later that night.

The alternate names they picked for Brad's namesake, in case she happens to be a niece and not a nephew?

Bradette.

Bradina.

Or Bradica.

I've never wished academic mediocrity on anyone so much in my life.

Still, I'm a woman of my word.

And I've made my bet, and now I have to lie in it.

***

Happy Friday everyone! Have a wonderful weekend!

Uniforms, Photo-Bombs, and The Bird

My entire family managed to survive a weekend in Annapolis, Maryland, celebrating my little brother's graduation from the United States Naval Academy.

My baby brother, Brad; my mom; the graduate, Brett; me, and my dad

I say 'survived' because it's no small feat navigating this lively clan around and making sure they follow the required military protocol.

Case in point:
Yep, that's my littlest brother, Brad - the Air Force Academy cadet.

Snoozing.

In the middle of the Navy's graduation ceremony.

Because, apparently, you can dress him up, but you can't take him out.

Not that sleeping through particularly reverent moments was Brad's only offense of the day.

He - in fact - is the sole instigator in a lot of our family's shenanigans. The following shot, in fact, was his idea:
Oh yes, that's me. With my brothers. Practicing our "photo-bombing" faces, a phrase coined by Brad for when he attempts to "jazz up" family portraits.

It's an art, he says.
One he's got down pat, apparently, uniform and all.

Just goes to show you that you can never trust the baby of the family. They're always the wild ones.

Still, from the baby to the oldest - yours truly - my family does try to honor tradition. With a genealogy rich in military service, our boys don uniforms, serve, and celebrate those who led the way for our country, like my grandfather, a West Point graduate himself and career Army man who served our country for many years.

Brad, my grandfather, Brett, and my cousin Bryan, a captain in the U.S. Army

For instance, my brother Brett, the Naval Academy graduate, had my grandfather place his officer shoulder boards on right after he graduated, signifying that he was no longer a student of the U.S. Naval Academy, but a full-serviced officer.
This brought on such a barrage of tears - from my tough old grandpa included - that my dad finished up and put on Brett's other shoulder board.
Proud moments, I tell you. Proud moments.

Then, in yet another homage to tradition, Brad, who will only be an Air Force officer when he graduates from the Air Force Academy in three years, had the chance to salute his big brother, who now outranks him, and win a silver dollar from him - a long-standing Naval Academy tradition.

Kevin, Brett's best friend and fellow Navy graduate; Brad, and Brett

It was another touching moment, where we all cried. My brothers held the salute a little too long, just so Big Sister here could get the perfect shot of brother saluting brother.

There wasn't a photo bomb in sight.

Until you take a closer look at my mother.

Who, apparently, is inadvertently flipping me the bird.

Talk about a photo-bomb. Even Brad's aren't that bad.

Shame on you, Mom. And in front of servicemen, no less.

***

I hope you all had a wonderful Memorial Day weekend, remembering those who have fallen in such brave service to our country. I am proud of the soldiers, sailors, and airmen in my family, and I am grateful for others I haven't met in person but who have blessed us with their service.

I am so glad I had a wonderful weekend honoring all our men and women in the military with my family. And I am so proud of my little brother, Brett. He exemplifies honor, service, and patriotism, while also being just an all-around good guy.

Still, my Memorial Day celebration didn't just end with my family.

I got to meet up with a few other special people, too.

Because while in Maryland, I got a pretty big surprise visit from some women some of you all may know and love just like I do.

Wanna know who?

Well come back tomorrow, and I'll fess up!

Until then, Happy Tuesday everyone!

***

P.S. My mother would like to clarify that she does not ever make that kind of inappropriate hand gesture, and only accidentally did so in the above photo because she was holding too many things and about to cry. Which, in her defense, she did a lot of that weekend. And about two seconds after I took that picture, she did stop accidentally flipping me The Bird and instead broke into a barrage of tears. She's a sap, but not a class-less one known for making unladylike hand gestures. Please don't think poorly of her, or she might disown me.

Another Sailor

Apparently, I'm destined to spend most of my time around men in uniform.

Because my husband is not the only sailor in my life.

My brother, as of this weekend, is also an officer in the U.S. Navy.

He's graduating from the United States Naval Academy tomorrow, and I will be there.

Or, more accurately, I'm already there.

God willing.

Because I flew out last night to Maryland with my grandfather - a career Army man, who while retired for quite a while, still infuses his life with military precision and spirit.

Which means I'm now in the process of meeting up with my other brother - who is in the Air Force - my parents, my mom's best friend, and my cousin, who also happens to be in the military - an Army Ranger, to be exact.

That's a lot of men in uniform - buzz cuts and salutes and all.

But, the important thing is, uniforms or no, we're all there to celebrate my little brother's accomplishment.

And even though I'm two weeks away from moving, and the craziness has finally taken over - I'm living among boxes, people! - I took off for Maryland last night.

Because this is important!

And, also, I like to keep traditions alive.

Anyone remember last year? When we moved into our current home, threw a bridal shower for our friends, and then took off on a red-eye to Arkansas all in the same three days?

Apparently, I like to add extra trips into weeks already jam-packed with big life changes.

Also, I may be a little bit crazy.

But that's beside the point!

Because my brother is graduating from the Academy. He is coming out an officer and a leader of our country. And that should be honored. That is important to me.

So, of course, I'm going.

He should be celebrated.

Plus, I'm not one to pass up a chance to sleep in a hotel.

And get away from all these darn boxes.

***

Be back next week, everyone! Hope you all have a wonderful Memorial Day weekend!

Parents Gone Wild

I was minding my own business - living it up and grading papers on a Saturday night - when I got a text message.

From my mother.

Because she's high-tech like that.

Showing technology I didn't know her phone possessed, she sent me the following picture of my father and a message, carefully crafted, I'm sure, to warn me about my future.

And, of course, scar me for life.

"Be very afraid. This is your gene pool, and this is our idea of a big Saturday night. A Disney movie [Up] and a blow-up bed. At least it's not a blow-up doll."

I'm not sure what's worse; the fact that my parents just finally heard of a little film called Up, or the fact that they purposefully blew up their queen-size air mattress in their living room so they could recline oh-so-luxuriously while watching a Disney movie.

And then there's the matter of my mother's blatant reference to a blow-up doll.

Which I'm not even going to consider, as it makes me want to run at full-speed and cliff dive off some huge Himalayan mountain, just so I can think about something else.

Then again, I suppose I shouldn't judge.

I was the one home alone on a Saturday night. Grading papers. Drinking tea. Wrapped in a Snuggie. Making my gene pool proud.

But at least there wasn't a blow-up device - mattress and/or doll - in sight.

***

Happy Monday everyone! Hope you all had a wonderful weekend!

A trial separation

My husband leaves in one month.

My husband leaves in one month for military training.

My husband leaves in one month for military training, which will take him away from me for three months.

My husband leaves in one month for military training, which will take him away from me for three months - and by "take him away from me," I totally mean he will be granted nary a phone call or e-mail in my direction until May.

Now, this was a decision we reached together.

And up until, oh, last week, I was all tough-girl about the whole thing.

"I mean, sure, it's not going to be fun, but other people do this all the time. He has to do it, so I have to do it. I'll be fine. Really, I'll be just fine. I'm very busy, and before I know it, I'll be moving to South Carolina, and we'll be re-united, and it will feel so good. Frankly, I think it's going to fly by," I told friend after worried friend.

And then, my husband left for our trial separation.

You see, being the fabulous man that he is, he wanted to spend some time with his parents, siblings, grandmother, and childhood friends before the U.S. Navy locked him away from normal civilization for three months.

And all those parents, siblings, grandmother, and childhood friends? They live in Arkansas. So, being so fabulous, he went to Arkansas.

He went to them.

To kiss his grandmother. To have family dinner with his parents. To hug his 8-month-old nephew. To camp with his buddies from middle-school.

And me? I stayed here.

Granted, I wanted to go. He wanted me to go.

But then we remembered that I had not one, but two jobs I had to do, both of which frown heavily on you taking two weeks off in the middle of January for a family vacation when you just had a Christmas vacation.

So, I baked the man some pound cakes to take as gifts, stocked his car full of trail-mix and peanut-butter sandwiches, and waved good-bye as he drove off.

Yes, I stayed here.

And at first, I was slightly melancholy, but fine.

I remembered with fondness all my "secret-single behaviors" and decided to dedicate my long weekend to them.

I prepared no "man-friendly" meals, existing only on salads, soups and popcorn - my favorite of all delicacies. I rolled around on my bedroom floor, aghast at the fact that spare, dirty male underwear and socks and shirts and pants were not strewn about it, as if that hamper in the corner of the room was, in fact, invisible. I watched copious amounts of chick flicks and DVD series, like Friends, which my husband hates. I read stacks of fitness magazines and finished up a pile of books I've been meaning to get to. I tweezed my eyebrows with my magnifying mirror. I went to Target not one, not two, but three times. I wore ugly sweatpants to bed. I put mushrooms and tomatoes - my husband's mortal foes - in everything I ate. I even managed to do a laundry load of just bras, without so much as a stinky Hanes' sock thrown in to blemish my unmentionables.

And I made it less than two days into my "secret single" life before I began to miss him.

But I definitely wouldn't go down without a fight.

So I went grocery shopping for girl-only food. I did yoga in the living room. I listened to classical music. I pointed and laughed at the un-played XBox. I didn't put on make-up, even when I ventured out to the store. I blogged a little. I slept width-wise across our bed.

And I made it another 12 hours before I realized I still missed him.

But still, I was resilient.

I took another shower alone, singing and blissfully enjoying that I didn't have to say every five seconds, "Move, please. You're hogging all the warm water." I walked both dogs by myself, stopping to have a hug-fest with both of them whenever I wanted. I drank copious amounts of carrot juice. I thought about shaving my legs, but didn't. I organized my closet. I went to Old Navy and Barnes & Nobles just to wander.

And I still missed him.

Granted, he wasn't helping my situation.

He sent me flowers when I told him I wasn't feeling well. He texted me and called me and told me what he did every hour of every day. He sent me photos of his nephew's adorable little chubby self. He promised me I was only missing him so bad because I had a long weekend, and that as soon as work kicked back in, I'd be fine.

The big jerk, he tried to make me feel better.

Still, it didn't really work.

I still missed him.

I still miss him.

I'm not sleeping well. I'm not motivated to do anything, really. When I'm not at the gym, I'm constantly thinking, "Oh my gosh! He's going to be gone for a whole other eight days! What am I going to do with myself?"

Fact is, I'm kind of lonely.

And sure, I've got great friends. They call me and invite me out and ask me to do this, that, and the other. But it's not as fun when I know I won't come home to him at the end of it all.

And yes, life is rather uncomplicated when you don't have another person to worry over, cook for, and take care of - seriously, why didn't I get more done when I was single? - but it's not the good kind of uncomplicated.

And most definitely, I can survive without him. I haven't come close to burning anything down around here, and while I'd had to use the step-stool a few more times than normal, my lifestyle hasn't changed all that drastically.

Except he's not in it.

And I'm terribly lonely.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Because I've been thinking it, too.

If you can't do this for two weeks, how are you going to do it for three months?

Fact is, I don't know.

So, yes, along with being lonely, I'm ever-so-slightly panicked. Because how am I going to be away from him for three whole months?

No amount of chick flicks, hairy legs, and popcorn can help that.

No matter how big the stacks of magazines and books are that serve as my distraction, no matter how many nights I spend sleeping horizontally across our bed, no matter how many weekends I spend without make-up on, it turns out, I'm going to be lonely.

Because my husband is my best friend. He is my soul mate. And life without him isn't nearly as full as it is when he's in it.

Even when he's hogging the shower, littering our bedroom floor with dirty laundry, and fastidiously picking mushrooms out of everything I cook, he's still my better half. He makes my life a little bit more worthwhile, in fact.

And I've got to be without my worthwhile better half for three months.

Frankly, there's no other way to say it:

This is going to stink.

Because I have a week left before he comes back from Arkansas.

And then I have three weeks left before he leaves again.

I'm afraid of being miserable; I'm afraid of being lonely; I'm afraid of being without him; I'm afraid of feeling like I do right now all the time.

I'm afraid of being separated.

This stinks.

***

Sorry! I should have warned you all this was a downer of a post. I just had to get all that off my chest. Hopefully now, I can find the perky again in my life, even if my husband is serving his country - safely, thank the Lord - away from me.

I promise to get the sunshine turned on around here tomorrow for Workout Wednesday!

Hope everyone has a wonderful Tuesday!