When I Grow Up

This weekend didn't feel like a weekend.

In fact, with the hubs working till midnight on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, I kept forgetting it was the weekend.

It was just Ella and I, playing catch up after we recovered from our round of the fall virus.

We were committing to the usual: Cleaning, laundry, and grocery shopping.

I pretty much always do my grocery shopping on the weekend.

In addition to that, once a month, I hit the bulk store. And always, if I can manage it, I go alone, leaving Ella with her daddy, or I wait until I can take the hubs with me and her.

Handling a baby and several gallons of organic chicken broth can be a bit daunting. I love my daughter, but we're happier if I don't have to juggle both at once.

But, this week, I had no choice.

I had to go to Costco.

Alone.

Blessedly, for most of the trip, Ella did really well.

She was content wrapped up in the Moby for almost my entire venture up and down the aisles of the terribly overcrowded warehouse, but toward the end, she was starting to get tired, as it was nap-time.

Her whimpering began.

In the checkout line, the bag boy couldn't throw my stuff in the cart fast enough. Ella began to inch closer and closer to a break down, and her whimpers became cries.

Still wearing the now profusely fussing baby, I started to push my several hundred pound cart out the door when I saw it: Rain.

A downpour of wind and rain swirled about the parking lot.

Crap.

I threw my sweatshirt hood over my head and Ella's over hers, and I ventured out, wheeling my massive and heavy cart with one hand and bouncing Ella in the Moby in my other.

I was stepping in wet puddles, start and stopping thanks to cars, and trying to ignore all the zig-zagging traffic dancing and splashing around us. We were getting positively soaked.

Finally, way out in the edges of the parking lot, where I'd parked in the former sunshine because it was right next to a cart carousel, I managed to get to my car.

And then, I heard a voice.

"Ma'am. Ma'am?"

A man, dressed in black pants, a shirt, cowboy boots and hat, was approaching me.

He was easily 85 years old.

"Ma'am. You have your hands so full. Please let help you. Let me load your groceries in your car."

By force of habit, I resisted, saying, "Oh no! We're fine! Please don't worry about it!"

Plus, he was so old, I worried some of the bigger boxes full of cans and containers might be too much for him.

But, gesturing back at his wife, who was sitting in their Cadillac waving at Ella and I, he replied, "Please. We insist. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't help you."

So, I let him load my car while I put Ella in her car-seat.

In the rain, both of us working, we exchanged pleasantries about where we were from and what we were doing.

Then, as we were closing my trunk, I found him standing at attention, saluting me.

"I see from your car's stickers that your husband's in the Navy. I'll salute you for his service. I'm retired Air Force, and I appreciate your sacrifice."

It was all I could do not to burst into tears right there.

I thanked him, in return, for his service, and then we parted ways; me unwrapping my Moby and climbing in the front seat, him sitting in his car with his wife and watching me safely drive away.

I waved and smiled wide as we drove by. Then, I turned to Ella.

"See, baby, people are good. Chivalry isn't dead. And when I grow up, I want to be just like him."

***

Happy Monday, everyone!

A Fresh Start

First off, have you taken a peek around here lately?

Look at how spiffy we are!

Thanks to the lovely Katie, I have a new blog design.

It's fresh. It's simple. It's bright and easy and, well, I'm hoping it's a bit inspiring.

Because right now, in my life, I need fresh, simple, bright, and easy.

Don't get me wrong. I am tremendously blessed and happy. My husband is gainfully employed. My daughter is amazing. I have a job I love that allows me to also be a stay-at-home mom. We have good food on our table and a roof over our heads, and, well, I can't complain about that.

But I have to admit, for the last few weeks, I've been dragging.

We've been plodding away at setting a schedule - a schedule that encompasses my work, my baby, my husband, my friends, my family, and my house.

And, honestly, it has been really, really hard. And, as is life, it hasn't been going according to plan.

I feel like I'm leaving a lot of things neglected.

If I vacuum the floor, Ella doesn't get enough tummy time.

If I take Ella to breast-feeding group, my husband's eating tuna-fish for dinner.

If I make a hot meal, my daily blog post is severely lacking.

The cycle goes on and on.

To me, right now, life just feels sticky. I'm literally trudging along through tasks that I have to do and missing out on the things that I want to do.

It's hard to know that I'm not commenting on blogs like I used to, and that people have noticed. It's hard to know that I always have about 18 phone calls left to return, and that people have noticed. It's hard to know that I haven't done anything but put my hair in a ponytail for the last six weeks, and that people have noticed.

I guess I'm just trying to find a balance. I'm trying to get to a place where I feel like me. Where I can be me. The new me, that is.

But where I can also be everything else I need to be. Especially for those that need me to be there.

On Monday, my husband started a new shift of schedules out on the boat here. Basically, what this means is, except for one day a week, I'm pretty much a single mother. He's working such long shifts, he'll leave before Ella's up, and he'll come home after she's asleep.

The good news is, I have a lot of time on my hands to get things done. The bad news is, my partner-in-crime? Gone.

No more bath time with Daddy. No more hand-offs so I can finish dinner before midnight. No more walks with the family.

It's just gonna be mommy wrangling a baby in a stroller and Marvin the Dog all by her lonesome - a literal daily happening, but also a metaphor for what life has felt like for me lately.

I've got a lot of things leashed to me, and I'm trying to keep them all from getting too entangled.

And it's hard to not feel like a failure when, occasionally, one of those leashes gets a knot.

It's hard to face a day where nothing got done because Ella needed me to bounce and rock and nurse on the hour. It's hard to watch my husband come home to a wife whose hair is falling out of its bun while she straps a baby to her and tries to finish dinner, fold laundry, and write sessions for clients, all while making a huge mess in the process.

Slogging through this learning period just isn't easy.

And I look about at the things that make up that quintessential "me" part of my life - my friendships, my blog, my hobbies, my talents - and I inwardly cringe.

They are not where I want them to be.

At work, I've already had to drop two classes I taught. Because my husband's schedule changed three months before we thought it would, we're in no position for me to be heading to work at 4:30 a.m. for a few hours on Tuesday and Thursday mornings.

It was agonizing, getting rid of those hours. I felt like I let my clients down. For the first time in a long, long time, I had to look at someone and say, "I can't. I'm sorry. But I can't. That's too much for me to handle."

It tasted sour, admitting to all that.

It tasted even worse when I realized that some clients and co-workers were literally miffed at me for choosing my daughter over them.

Bit, in my mind, they were miffed at me because I was admitting defeat. I was admitting that I couldn't do it all.

Luckily, every day gets a little better. Ella has more patience. I get a little more sleep. I find another kindred spirit who realizes that what I do every day really is work.

I utilize my tricks of the trade - my Moby, my Crock-pot, and my extensive binder of workouts - and I try and get as much done as I can.

Still, a lot of the time, it's two steps forward and one step back. Not to mention all the booby (baby?) traps in my way.

Every day is filled with more and more crazy turns, little triumphs, and unexpected set-backs.

I keep saying, "We're almost there. We're finally getting into a schedule," when, Bam! Ella, or my husband, or my work, or - heck - Marvin the Dog throw me for another huge change in the itinerary.

It makes me wonder if, honestly, we'll ever settle in.

***

I guess what I'm really trying to say is, "Have patience with me."

I'm full and trying to get to a place where I can manage it all, including the occasional blog comment or two.

Babies change things, and being their sole caretaker from sun-up to sun-down changes things even more.

I promise. We'll get it.

I don't want to fail, and therefore, I'm not giving myself a choice.

But for now, I'm still traveling along the learning curve, leaving me to beg you, once again, to reach out and have patience with me.

***

Happy Wednesday!

Getting It

On Saturday morning, Ella woke up at 3:30 a.m.

I was really, really tired myself, and I groggily roused myself enough to right Ella, who was sleeping on my chest, and evaluate the situation.

She was rooting around, attempting to find a breast.

She was hungry.

So, without thinking much, I slipped her into the crook of my arm, laid on my right side, and latched her on.

She began nursing immediately, little hands resting on my breast, and big, baby eyes peering up at me.

I settled onto the pillows and let her eat and watched her through my own sleepy eyes.

I sighed and relaxed, enjoying her sweet little sighs and the feeling of little baby hands and fingers splayed across my chest.

Then, it hit me.

I was enjoying this. I was actually enjoying nursing.

I didn't mind waking up in the middle of the night. I didn't hear Ella cry and instantly react worriedly. My body didn't instinctively stiffen up right before she latched on, anticipating the pain that had accompanied nursing in weeks past.

I was settled and capable and just, well, there. Nursing. Parenting.

In that moment, at 3:30 in the morning, barely awake, it finally hit me.

I was getting it.

Or, rather, I'd got it.

Finally, things were coming easier.

On the way home from our weekend trip, the hubs and I talked about it more. He agreed that, over the last week, we'd finally settled in. I hadn't had panic-like attacks. I wasn't having tearful breakdowns. We'd both figured out how to manage Ella during her "witching hours," i.e., from about 5 p.m. to 9 p.m.

We'd finally started to establish a very basic routine. We were finally able to wash, dry, and fold a load of laundry in under a week. We were finally able to hit the grocery store and cook a basic meal.

For the first time in almost a month, I actually returned a phone call yesterday morning.

Life is sure different around here, but, somehow, we've managed to - finally! - get our act together.

Back at the beginning of July, after our second round of company left, I realized how low I really was. I was so unlike myself I was hard to recognize, and I was just learning and coping and caring for Ella; it was all I could wrap my head around.

I'd literally hear my phone ring, and I'd shake. I couldn't figure out how to juggle Ella and answer it.

I wasn't eating because I literally wasn't able to cope with a fussy baby who always wanted to nurse so I could make myself a sandwich. The hubs would come home, and I'd be shaking from low blood sugar.

When Ella would sleep, I'd sit in my living room and cry, looking at the dust. Looking at the dog hair on the carpet. Then, I'd go and take a fitful nap, too, because I was so tired, and coping with a lot of pain from the breast-feeding, which, thanks to Ella's ability to grow like a weed, was a constant battle.

If she ate 15 times a day, I'd cry and shake 15 times a day.

Then, I'd cry more. Because I'd feel guilty. I spent most of this month feeling like I let people down.

I turned down tons of local invitations to parties and mom groups, or simply never responded to them. I ignored voice-mails and e-mails and other queries about how we were doing. I never sent out birth announcements. I couldn't even think of writing thank-you notes for all the gifts and food and help we'd receive when Ella was born.

And so, I was mad and sad. All at myself. I hated that I couldn't function like I used to.

It was rough. Really rough.

Rougher than I realized at the time. Because now, now that I'm on the other side of it, I'm realizing how out of touch I was.

Now that my pain is mostly gone, now that Ella and I have established our own little rhythm, now that I can do more than just feed, change, and rock my baby in a day, I realize how crazy the first six weeks of Ella's life were. For me, at least.

And, now, I'm so glad we're where we are now.

Ella's cries don't instantly riddle me with guilt. I can feed her without anxiety. I've managed a few trips and errands just her and I without either one of us sweating profusely or breaking down. And little triggers - the phone ringing, the dryer dinging, the stove timer pinging - aren't setting me off anymore.

Thank God.

Thank God, we're getting it. I'm getting it.

I recognize myself again. I laugh again. I have a desire to work on projects I'd laid aside after Ella was born, and I now want to go places other than my living room and bed-room.

It took a while; it wasn't easy, but, finally, I feel happy and content and, well, like me.

Finally, I'm getting it.

***

I do owe a ton of people apologies.

Those of you who I haven't sent thank-you notes to. Those of you who called and never got a call back. Those of you whose e-mails I blatantly ignored, or, in my baby haze, never even saw.

Trust me, it wasn't intentional. I was in a bit of a fight-or-flight modus operandi, and I truly didn't mean to be cruel. I was just, simply, trying to survive.

Still, I hate that I hurt people I love, and that thought is the only thing that still brings tears to my eyes and anxiety to my heart.

I'm hoping to get back into the swing of things this week - writing notes, making calls, actually going through my out-of-control inbox.

Because, now that I'm getting it, it's the least I can do.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

A Year Ago

A year ago, everything we owned was packed.

A year ago, I was loading up the U-Haul.

A year ago, I was about to end the four-month stint I'd spent away from my husband.

A year ago, I was wrapping up the school year with my last group of students.

A year ago, I was moving here.

I cannot believe that, as of Sunday, it's been a year since we moved to South Carolina.

So much has changed: We're pregnant. We're severely indoctrinated into the military lifestyle. We're surrounded by a whole new group of friends, supporters, and loved ones.

It's bizarre, and yet, it feels like just yesterday that I was itching to get here. Itching to be back under the same roof as my husband in a state I'd only driven through prior to June 12, 2010.

Now, we live here. We're delivering our first baby here. Our home is here.

I've always prided myself on not getting caught up on where, exactly, my home was. I scoffed at people who just had to live in New York City or Los Angeles or some other city that's been dramatized and put up on a pedestal in American culture.

I, for one, am not a romantic about location. I am, however, a romantic about my home. A home that can be anywhere, as long as it's with my family.

You can move me to Kansas, and while I may take a while to adjust, I'll make do. I'll try and be happy. I can live there, very successfully.

It's not terribly shocking I ended up a military wife, I guess. Adaptability, for me, is an absolute necessity.

If you can't roll with the punches - furthermore, if you can't handle the hard stuff life's gonna throw at you - you're in for a rude awakening and a rough adulthood.

I learned that early on. And I've stuck to it.

Which is why I'm happy here. We rolled with the punches, and even though there have been sleepless nights, days and days and days where I never saw as much as my husband's face, blistering heat waves, and night after night alone where I realized I knew no one in this town, I still wasn't miserable.

I was still really happy here.

It's exactly why the past year has positively flown by.

And, now, we're celebrating our one year anniversary as South Carolinians. Or whatever the heck you call the natives here.

Granted, it's not that I don't miss being closer to my immediate family. Or my friends. Or my students I worked with for years in Florida.

But we moved. We made a choice a year ago. Or, rather, the Navy made a choice for us, but that's part of the deal we accepted when my husband stepped forth as a serviceman.

And, therefore, we made a choice not only to uproot our lives, but we made a choice to thrive when we were asked to do so.

So here we are. Choosing to thrive where we were planted.

Not to say it wasn't scary at first. If you didn't know any better, you'd find all sorts of reasons to be miserable here.

We live in a literal swamp, out in the boonies of Charleston, S.C. We live in rote, basic, old military housing.

My husband has a crazy, erratic work schedule. I, too, maintain what many would see as a mundane, boring, exhausting routine - at work and on the home-front.

We have very little time and money to treat ourselves to much other than the basics.

Our lives are not exactly a popular TV sitcom, in other words. So I know others would - and probably do - see our life as crazy, backward, even oppressive.

And, yet, we're happy.

Happier than a lot of people I know.

Because, a year ago, we made a choice. A year ago, we changed our lives. And a year ago, we moved here.

And despite all the upheaval that came with it, I couldn't be any happier.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

They Aren't All Bad

Teaching high-school left me with post-traumatic stress disorder.

Honestly, sometimes, when I walk by a child within the ages of 13-17, I cringe.

I can't help myself; I literally wince.

I'll even notice, sometimes, that I hold my breath.

Or, if I'm anywhere near a group of teens, I'll veer away sharply, visibly disturbed.

For awhile, I thought it was because I was afraid of seeing an actual student of mine out and about at Target, or the grocery store, or the nearby park. Nothing's more awkward than being caught unawares by the kids you're put in charge of five days a week.

But now that I'm no longer teaching and have moved far away from the town I taught in, I notice that I still do it.

I get all kinds of angst-y when I'm near teenagers.

God forbid they do something annoying or outlandish or inappropriate near me, too.

Because, almost as if I can't help it, I turn on them. And immediately fix them with the glare I patented over my years in the classroom that seems to say, "I'm watching you. I see what you're doing. And I'm not happy. So keep pushing it, and just see where that gets you."

If they're being particularly annoying in, say, a family restaurant on a Friday night, I will even go as far as to say something to you.

In the last two months alone, I've called out a kid for trying to trip a mother holding a toddler in the mall. And I politely, but seriously, asked a group of teens to knock it off, after they'd positioned themselves near a soda fountain in a local pizzeria and proceeded to make copious farting noises behind several older people's backs while they filled their drinks.

I just can't take it; I demanded respect from teenagers when they were in my classroom, and somehow, I revert back to that modus operandi when functioning out in the real world.

I loved working with teens, but they are a challenge. And they have a huge propensity to be rude and mean and inappropriate if not subtly guided down an alternate path.

In fact, most interactions I've had with even good teens involved lots of eye-rolling, whispered cuss words under their breath, and out-and-out hostility.

It took me months and months with my kids in my classroom to win them over. To make them realize that I wasn't the enemy and that, if we all played by the same basic rules of decency, we could even have a good time at school together.

But I've built up no camaraderie with the kids I encounter on a day-to-day basis.

And, so, sometimes, I wince. And I cringe. And I hold my breathe when I walk on by because, like someone who's lived through a war, I'm kind of worried about what kind of bomb they're going to drop in my presence.

Blessedly, most teens are wholeheartedly unaware of the world around them. They're too busy being pre-occupied with their own selves - a classic symptom of adolescence So most of my interactions with teens today are non-issues.

They don't notice me; I warily watch them from the corners of my eyes until I realize they're completely harmless and not about to pick-pocket the elderly man standing in front of them.

It's very symbiotic, if a bit paranoid on my part.

And yet, still, my paranoia continues.

The grocery store is, in fact, one of my biggest sources of Teacher PTSD. On our Navy base here, most of the employees and baggers are teenagers from the local high-school who work there in order to make extra pocket money.

Most are sullen and cranky about it, too.

They kind of grunt at you and refuse to engage you in conversation while they're scanning your produce. They're very age-appropriate and awkward.

So, in an effort to avoid them, most of the time I attempt to bag my own groceries at the self-checkout counter.

Plus, I don't feel a need to tip them that way, and the whole process tends to move a bit faster.

So, a few weeks ago, that's just what I did. I helped myself to the self-checkout.

I was scanning carrots and eggs and cheese and peanuts and tea bags. You know, just doing my thing.

Then, it came time to hoist up my big items - a super-large bag of dog food and two big watermelons - onto the belt.

I reached for the first melon without a second thought. But I could barely get my hands around it before I heard her:

"Oh, ma'am, please don't pick all that up! I'll get it! You shouldn't be lifting all that! Here, let me help you!"

A 17-year-old girl, neon jewelry a-jangling and gum a-snapping, came rushing over and lifted all my heavy items onto the belt, finished scanning them for me, and then bagged every single last one of the items I purchased.

She even scolded me for "trying to lift that dog food, pregnant like you are."

She then helped me out to my car, unloaded my purchases into my trunk, and congratulated me on my upcoming baby's arrival.

I was so touched - and shocked - that I immediately started digging through my wallet to pull out a tip for her.

But before I could even scrounge up a few dollars, she was vigorously shaking her head and protesting, "No, ma'am, no no. I'm not taking your money. This is my job. You keep that. I just wanted to help you. You shouldn't be doing all this all by yourself."

I quietly thanked her as she then bounced her perky teenage self back into the store from whence she'd came.

And I stood there, flummoxed.

That day, I'd been the one taught a lesson. I'd been the one chastised. I'd been the one who heard a silent message from a relative stranger about basic human decorum.

Turns out, they're not all bad.

Some of them have been taught manners. And some of them have positive attitudes.

Some of them even respect others and embrace hard work.

In fact, some of them don't deserve my winces, glares, or silent stares of death.

I am grateful for those teens, and I'm grateful to the parents and teachers who raised them to be such upstanding citizens at such a young age, especially when their peers are still out there wreaking havoc, poking fun, and generally causing un-rest.

I have hope when I see those kids.

Granted, sometimes, I fear they are in the very small minority.

But they are there. Out there. Doing good and not simulating bowel movements right smack-dab in the middle of a family establishment.

With that, I can rest a little bit easier tonight, knowing that not every teen I trot on by tomorrow will leave me wincing out of fear.

That, indeed, they can be good people. Looking out for each other. Caring for each other.

Fighting the stereotype so often filled with eye-rolls and whispered cuss-words and out-and-out hostility.

They are teenagers, but they are decent people, too.

***

Happy Thursday, 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!

The Bane of Air Traffic Everywhere

I intended to blog yesterday.

Until I sat on the tarmac on the Fayetteville, Ark., airport for 2.5 hours Sunday night.

While it was nothing short of miraculous that we made my husband's grandmother's funeral this weekend, it was nothing short of a disaster getting us back.

All because of an infamous Southern city, known in some circles as Hot-lanta. Or, for the more mundane Southerner out there, plain, old Atlanta, Ga.

But me? I like to call it Pure Evil.

You see, as any good Southerner knows, flying through Atlanta can wreak havoc on even the best of traveling itineraries.

Which, on Sunday, it did. To the hubs, me, and several other thousand travelers who made the unfortunate and almost unavoidable choice of booking a flight that touched down and/or took off from that ridiculous hole of an international hub.

We sat in Arkansas because of inclement weather, on the tarmac, for 150 minutes. Two-and-a-half hours. More than 1/12 of my day.

All waiting on Atlanta to give us permission to take off on our two-hour flight.

Finally, we managed to taxi off, but only after the oh-so-sensitive flight attendant warned us approximately 24 times that it was going to be "really bumpy, wild, badbadbad ride, so please keep your seat belts on, whatever you do. It's going to be crazy, people. Crazy."

So comforting, I tell you. She had the bedside manner of a sadistic nurse, who warns you, a full hour before injecting you with a huge syringe, that "this is going to be some of the worst pain of your life. So hold on and get ready!"

After I wiped away my tears - I'm not a great flyer, and that flight attendant seriously freaked me out - I managed to rally enough to survive the flight and sprint off the plane, only to see our connecting flight into South Carolina taxi off, even though they, too, had been delayed.

But just not enough for the hubs and me to make it back home before midnight.

Luckily, the hub's military haircut and panic-stricken look, along with his terrified and barely holding-back-sobs wife, managed to finagle us seats on the final plane into Charleston that evening.

Miracle of miracles, considering we were in The Airport of Pure Evil.

But not so miraculous that we got out promptly. Our final flight finally took off at 1 a.m.

Oh, sweet heavens.

We had dinner, luckily, while waiting. At 11 p.m. And we took a small nap. At 11:30 p.m. I finished a book and a magazine. At 12:15 p.m.

And, then, finally, we boarded our plane and took a blessedly uneventful flight home.

We plopped into bed bright and early at 3 a.m.

Only to get up at 6 a.m. Monday morning for work.

Holy heaven, I've never been so tired. Nor has my butt ever been so sore. If I never sit on a plane that long again, it will be too soon.

Still, I'm so glad we went. While funerals aren't exactly like taking a ride on a party bus, they are a celebration of someone's precious life and the legacy they've left behind.

Being with my in-laws and my husband's family was special and wonderful, even if there were tears shed (and not just those induced by threats of turbulence dancing in my head.)

There were also laughs exchanged and stories told. Even the occasional embarrassing incident occurred, which will undoubtedly become fodder for future family stories for years to come.

Case in point: One little nephew of mine pointing at the coffin mid-service, and mid-quiet, and asking, in the projectile voice only a 3 year old can manage, "Is that D- in there? Right there in that box? D-'s in there, right Mom? Right, Auntie? D's in that big old box right up there!"

The whole church heard.

Leave it to a toddler to make everyone crack a cackle at a funeral.

While some people probably thought it horrifying, we found it funny and adorable and oh-so-charming. It was just another memory in the wreath of this family's legacy.

Life is full of moments and memories, and none are exclusive. All, in fact, are important. And if you can't celebrate them all, then what's the point of get-togethers, weddings, funerals, baptisms, birthdays, embarrassing outbursts, and random cook-outs on your back porch?

Tears. Laughter. Smiles. Sighs. Shocked statements. All are little reactions to those we love. And, even though this weekend contained a funeral and a farewell to a beloved matriarch, it also contained more of those simple life moments.

Plenty of which were spent aboard a plane on a tarmac in Arkansas.

But even more of which were spent amid the arms and laughter of the ones we love.

And for that, I'm grateful.

***

Thank you all, yet again, for your support in these hard times. Your comments last Thursday were so appreciated. Your blessings and prayers warmed both the hubs' and my heart. Thank you for being there for us.

Happy Tuesday!

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.

Future Unsure

Ten years ago, I thought I knew where I was going.

Granted, I didn't know my husband; I didn't have a college degree; heck, I hadn't even started college yet.

Which means, really, I knew nothing.

Yet, I thought I had it all mapped out.

Go to college. Get a degree. Get a master's degree. Work as a professional woman. Get married. Work a little more. Have babies. Raise babies. Possibly work from home. Retire luxuriously with my husband in a little cabin in the woods.

Bing. Bang. Boom.

Just as if life was like one of my many to-do lists, I had a series of boxes just waiting to be checked off.

Degree? Check.
Job? Check.
Husband? Check.
Babies? Check.

And, for a while there, I stuck to the plan. I graduated college. I got a job.

I even found a husband, though not the one I imagined I'd find.

And, then, life happened.

Jobs were won. Lost. I moved into a profession I never thought I would. And my husband joined the U.S. Navy.

We don't have a baby yet, and we're currently living in a state where I have no family, no long-time friends, and no previous area know-how.

We've diverted way off the course, if you consider my teenage dreams.

So many boxes have yet to be checked.

And, to some extent, I don't know when they will be.

I don't know when we'll be blessed with a baby. I don't know how my career will change and develop, yet again. I don't know what my husband will do once he leaves the U.S. Navy, if he leaves the Navy at all. And I don't know where we'll end up next, let alone where we'll finally settle down and build our "forever home."

Blame the military lifestyle.

Blame the fact that I feel like I literally blinked and realized I wasn't 21 anymore.

But, no matter how you slice it, the life I'd planned out so carefully during my younger years has yet to come to fruition.

I have no idea where I'll be in 10 years.

Not even a clue.

My husband could very well still be a sailor in the Navy. We could have all four of my dream children. We could own a home in the Midwest, the Pacific, or, heck, right here in South Carolina.

Or the hubs could be a civilian again. We could have less or more children than I ever thought possible. We could be day-tripping across the country in a motor home.

The future, it seems, is unsure.

And, frankly, that scares me. The part of me that craves a schedule, craves a plan, craves a list of specific, well-thought-out goals, gets an itch when I realize I may not get my dream house, my dream family, my dream life, when I thought I would. Or, honestly, ever.

But, along with that fear, comes hope.

Hope that, though my life has been uprooted and my checklist's been re-written time and time again, I may get more than I ever thought possible.

I may get a life I never even pictured in my wildest dreams.

And, when I do, I'll sit back, rocking my first, second, third, fourth, or fifth baby, in a house or that rickety old motor home, on a Navy base or in a home all my own, and laugh at that little girl who thought she had it all figured out.

Who thought she knew where she was going and how she was getting there.

Who thought she knew where she'd be in 10 years.

***

Thanks to Aubrey S. at High-Heeled Love, I got to tell this little story. She gifted me with the You're Going Places Award. Thanks so much, girly!
So, now, I'd like to pass this award on to:

1. Alicia at The Diary of a Crazy Wife
2. Brittany at Sweet, Sassy, and oh so Classy
3. Jess at All-American Jess
4. Taryn at Mr. Jones & Me
5. Moe at A Million Margaritas
6. Taylor at Then There Were Three...
7. Amy Lynn at The Un-Wife Housewife Life
8. Steph S. at A Day in the Life of Grad Student's Life
9. Ashlynn at A Cushy Baby Blog
10. Claire at A Peachtree City Life

Go ahead, lovely ladies. Tell us where you think you'll be in 10 years. And then pass it on to 10 of your favorite bloggers.

Happy Thursday everyone!

Welcome to South Carolina

I have lived in Florida my entire life.

But not anymore.

Because as of this Saturday, I became a transplant.

I'm finally in South Carolina.

But for all intents and purposes, I haven't fully transitioned yet. At least not emotionally.

I'm still in shock that this will be our home for at least two years. I'm still in shock that my parents, two of my friends, and my brother drove away and left me here this weekend. For good. And I'm still in shock that I'm not on some sort of sick vacation, where you're forced to bring every single one of your possessions with you.

I'm staying here, but it just doesn't feel real yet.

Don't get me wrong. I'm totally thrilled, despite the new-found free time and lack of Earth-shattering affairs our new home currently boasts.

After all, there is nothing like a forced separation from a loved one to make even the most mundane of household chores seem wonderful. Honestly, my heart about skipped a beat when I washed a load of my husband' clothes yesterday. Never a fan of laundry, I felt like I was in my own personal Disney World, helping out the hubs in that way. Here's hoping I can always take such joy in washing his dirty whites.

I was also able to cook dinner for him last night, wake up and have breakfast with him this morning, wave good-bye as he went to work, and rest assured that he'd come back to me at the end of the day.

That's all I've craved for the last four months, so I'm happy.

But still, I'm adjusting.

I'm living in South Carolina.

I'm actually living in South Carolina.

Holy cow, Toto! We're not in Florida anymore!

Instead, I'm in a place where I don't know the grocery stores; I don't know the interstates; I don't know my neighbors.

I went for a drive yesterday after a meeting at the gym I'm going to work at, and I stumbled upon a Super Wal-Mart - a much nicer one that is much closer to my home than the one I'd previously found this weekend.

And, even though I normally abhor Wal-Mart, I was ecstatic. It served as a reminder to treasure the familiar and the useful.

No longer can I take for granted knowing exactly what lies around each bend in the highway. No longer can I understand exactly what places and people the local news is discussing. And no longer can I jump in the car and head to the store for a quick impromptu item pick-up.

Instead, I find myself Googling CVS pharmacies, Redbox rentals, and TJ Maxx HomeGoods, because gone are the days of getting in the car and instinctively heading to the right place, arriving at the right time, just because the familiar route is that ingrained in my head.

Now, I require a map to do anything. Not that it always helps.

For instance, I showed up an hour early for a spinning class yesterday because I was so afraid I'd get lost en route that I left 75 minutes early - for a place that's, literally, right down the street.

I'm a little time-sensitive, wouldn't ya say?

Thankfully, people have been more than gracious here. In a true sense of Southern hospitality, employees and citizens have given me directions, told me where to find good deals, and warned me against inclement weather.

One old man literally walked me to a book store, I was so turned around.

And I was so grateful, and so eager for the companionship, that I almost invited him out to lunch afterward.

Because, while I've never had a problem making friends, I'm a little worried this go-round.

So far, I've only gotten and returned several casual waves from other wives in the base neighborhood. As Marvin the Dog and I walk about, we'll exchange a casual "Good Morning!" or "Have a nice evening!" with a sailor running by.

And, like an awkward kid at a middle-school dance, I get a secret thrill out of every minor exchange.

I'm all, "They like me! They really like me!" as if they know enough about me - other than the fact that I enjoy being pulled around by an enormous dog three times a day - to find a way to like me.

Meanwhile, all I really want to do is curl up in a ball and sleep for a week.

In all the tension of moving and relocating, I've literally forgotten that just last week, we finished up the 2009-10 school year. Even if I was still living in Florida, I'd be on summer break right now.

Relaxing should be a top priority.

Except that I can't.

I haven't quite let me guard down yet.

I keep expecting to wake up and find out that I have to leave again. That this was just another trip to see my husband and that, unfortunately, I have to go back to work back in Florida. That our four-month separation is not over, and that someone is going to come barging in our house any minute and tell us that "Time's up!"

I'm half-wondering if my old boss will come around the corner, grab me by the wrist, and drag me all the way back to Sunshine State, yelling at me for being MIA for the past three days and reminding me that I have responsibilities. People! Jobs! Bills to pay!

Except, then, I remember that I don't. At least not further South anymore.

This is our new home. And whether or not my body and spirit have accepted it yet, this is my new job: Working from home and taking care of it, as well.

It's still sinking in.

And, yet, I'm so happy. To have the hubs with me is worth Florida and more for me.

I've only lived here five days, and I don't regret any of it.

It's just that it's different. And it's making me a little shifty.

Still, when I least expect it, bits of Florida do come rushing back to me, reminding me that, though I'm several states away, not all that much has changed.

Currently, South Carolina is under a heat advisory warning.

Which means I left the hottest state known to man only to risk death by heat stroke.

Ah, yes. The good old South. Where no matter where you go, it's always blistering hot and the people always wave hello and good-bye.

I think I can grow to like it here.

At least once I realize I'm staying.

Welcome to South Carolina.

***

Happy Thursday everybody! Don't forget to check out my giveaway!

I Eight It Up

Eight is my favorite number.

It divides easily (and for a non-math lover, that is always a plus.)

Plus, I spent four years of high-school wearing it emblazoned on the rear of my Soffe shorts for all the world to see.

Because when you play water polo, you don't get a jersey. You get a swimsuit and a little cap that bears a strikingly resemblance to a baby bonnet. And that bonnet, my friends, is where your number goes.

source

So, out of the water, you paint your number on almost anything you can get your hands on.

Even your own butt.

So I did.

I was No. 8.

Me, my butt, and the No. 8; we were in this for the long haul.

So, of course, I was thrilled when more than eight of you tagged me to play a little game of crazy eights.

Because not only does it involve my favorite number, but it also involves lists.

And you all know how much I adore making lists.

Almost as much as I adore the No. 8, I tell you. Almost as much.

So, here, I give you my Crazy 8s:

8 T.V. Shows I Watch
1. LOST
2. Glee (Because it totally reminds me of my students)
3. Brothers & Sisters
4. The crazy ridiculous women on all seasons of the Real Housewives (I'm so ashamed!)
5. Flashforward (Trying it out to see if it can replace LOST when May 23 is finally upon us...sniff, sniff)
6. Parenthood
7. CSPAN (Because I love boring political news)
8. 20/20 (Because who doesn't love modern-day yellow journalism?)

8 Favorite Places to Eat and Drink*
1. The Top (my favorite local restaurant)
2. Chopstix (my favorite local Asian restaurant)
3. Satchel's (my favorite local pizza restaurant)
4. 43rd Street Deli (my favorite local diner)
5. Emiliano's (my favorite local Cuban restaurant)
6. Ichiban (my favorite local sushi restaurant)
7. Ivey's Grill (my favorite local brunch joint)
8. Sweet Tomatoes (the only chain on my list)

8 Things I Look Forward To
1. Living in South Carolina in our house with my husband again (30 days left!)
2. My childhood friends visiting me in South Carolina during my first week there
3. My blog friends visiting me in South Carolina my second week there
4. Summer (Because that's when all the fun is happening. See above.)
5. The weekend (Oh, the blessed weekend!)
6. Having babies
7. Getting another puppy (Which won't happen for a long time, but still, I had to tear myself away from yet another homeless Dane-lab mix this past weekend at PetSmart, and all I can say is, Marvin and Fish were this.close. to getting a baby brindle sister.)
8. A fun blog venture I have coming up next month with BlogHer

8 Things That Happened Yesterday
1. My students' yearbook was nominated to be one of the national models used to teach other schools
2. My principal told me it was my responsibility to find my replacement (Which it is not, by the way, and just served to tick me off all the more.)
3. I taught the most random cycling class of my life because the sound system wouldn't work for several long minutes. (I may or may not have had to sing a little.)
4. I ate fajita salad for about the 4,000th time this month for dinner.
5. I thought about how I'm not ready for my dog to die - not that he's even close - and I started crying.
6. I realized I will be re-united with my husband in less than a month.
7. I didn't wear mascara, and it was a total accident.
8. My phone died. Again.

8 Things I Like About Summer
1. The bright-colored clothing
2. Sundresses
3. Flip-flops
4. School is out
5. An overabundance of watermelon
6. The smell of sunscreen
7. Tan skin
8. Eating al fresco

8 Things I'm Passionate About
1. My marriage
2. My friendships
3. My family
4. Children
5. Prayer
6. Education
7. Exercise
8. Community

8 Words or Phrases I Use Often**
1. "Beautiful!"
2. "Excellent work!"
3. "Don't even ask me that!"
4. "Stop right there!"
5. "You know I don't respond to whining."
6. "Suck it up and do it."
7. "You and I both know that's not appropriate for school."
8. "Just embrace it." (I tell my gym clients to do this one all the time. And by "it," I mean the pain. Boy, I'm mean sometimes.)

8 Things I Have Learned From the Past
1. When in doubt, love them more.
2. At the end of even the worst day, at least my dogs are always happy to see me.
3. Children will excel if you expect them to.
4. If I don't write it down, I won't remember it.
5. I don't have achievements; I have blessings.
6. When in doubt, serve meals naked. (Actual advice given to me during my bridal shower. By a former missionary. Doesn't get any better than that, people.)
7. You can't have too much coffee.
8. You can sleep when you're dead. (Or when you finally retire from teaching.)

8 Places I'd Like to Visit
1. Rome
2. Poland
3. Ontario
4. California wine country
5. Maine
6. Greece
7. Turks and Caicos
8. New York City

8 Things I Currently Want/Need***
1. My husband physically by my side (30 days!)
2. More than four hours sleep a night
3. Patience
4. A baby
5. The perfect quilt at an affordable price to match my guest room
6. A day at the beach
7. Sushi
8. A size-2 waist

8 Bloggers I Tag to Play Along
1. Moe at A Million Margaritas
2. Heidi Renee
3. K at Two People and a Dog
4. Kelsey at Lavendar, Leopard, and Lace
5. Natalie at Miss Brightside
6. Hilary Lane at The Tale of this Newlywed
7. Jessica at Called to Serve
8. Jillian at It All Began With Man in a Black Jeep

*Writing this list, I just realized how much I'm going to miss all the local eateries in my town when I move. Uh-oh. Insert sad (hungry) face here.

**Can't tell I'm a high-school teacher with all those, can ya?

***Basically, I want the perfect life. She's got hiiigh hopes...

***

Join in, play along, and have fun! Happy Thursday everyone!

An Unabashed Hug

Before I started graduate school, I took a job working with chronically ill children at a camp.

By far one of the best jobs I've ever had, I learned a lot about myself and others there.

Heck, I even met my husband there.

It was a special place, a place, kids said, that was "filled with love" - a grand idea we all espoused while working there.

But underneath it all, it was a place just for kids. Sick kids, yes. But kids with attitudes. Kids with problems. Kids who were angry, depressed, and socially freaked out. Kids.

While we did our best to make that place all sunshine and rainbows, underneath it all, we knew some kids had issues that we wouldn't be able to fix in our short stints with them.

One such child, with such problems, we'll call Matilda.

She was 14. She had epilepsy. She had cerebral palsy (CP). She had a host of other problems that amounted to a life for this little girl that was nothing if not difficult.

She was severely delayed mentally, socially, and, to some extent, physically.

She struggled to walk, wore braces on her limbs, and limped. She held her right arm in toward her torso, immobile, characteristic of a child with CP, who had had strokes and resulting shunts put in her brain. She had seizures that sometimes caused just her face to twitch and other times wracked her whole body with such violent shakes that it would take her days to recover.

She also had bright red hair, freckles, and huge obsession with Hilary Duff.

Because of the irregular activity in her brain, this adolescent girl acted more along the lines of your typical 7 or 8 year old.

A 7 or 8 year old, mind you, who was largely unaware of how others viewed the world around her.

Because of that, she struggled to communicate, to relate to any of her peers. She stared off at times as if trying to escape from a world where other kids her age didn't understand her garbled speech, where adults didn't tire of repeating things over and over and over again to her because her brain didn't have the capacity to remember them.

She didn't understand boys and why others would see them as any different than girls; she didn't understand clothes, and why running around naked in front of others was not OK. She didn't understand her own size, and how crawling into someone's lap as a young teenager was largely seen as inappropriate.

Sad though it was, her brain just didn't let her understand the social mores, the proper etiquette, and the guarded language and gestures others put up around her to remain "cool" in our society.

Stripped of that ability, her mind just didn't comprehend.

But, because her mind also didn't have the ability to hold a grudge, to join a clique, or to pick on someone younger and weaker, it left room for one other skill - a skill Matilda knew all too well.

The ability to unabashedly and wholeheartedly love somebody.

Matilda has, to this day, the biggest heart I've ever seen.

I spent seven days working with her, and throughout each one, she'd squeeze my hand and smile up at me at during the most random of moments.

She'd express joy when we'd go fishing, when I'd take her swimming, when we'd play dress up, when we'd read books at night, when I'd tuck her into bed.

She'd scramble into my lap, as big as she was, and sing songs, brush my hair, or gently touch my earrings with her finger tips.

And, whenever she felt like it, whenever she thought it needed to be said, she'd reach her arms around my waist and hug me, beaming up at me and saying, "I love you."

Not that I was special. For, really, Matilda loved everybody. She was grateful for any fun experience with anyone. For example, as her parents led her away at the end of our week together, she hugged each one of her peers - all of whom also struggled with epilepsy, though not as severely - good-bye and wept, whispering "I love you."

In that week together, she probably hugged me 18 times a day. Maybe even more. She hugged all of us that much. I was so used to her arms around my waist and her hand squeezing mine that by the time she left, I physically missed them.

She made that camp a place that was really "full of love."

Because that week, I may have taught Matilda a few things: We learned to put on lipstick, and we learned to play hopscotch. We even learned to float on our backs in the pool.

But Matilda, with every single hug, taught me a lot more.

She taught me that humanity is, underneath it all, good.

That, once you strip away the baggage that societal pressure puts on most of us, the human spirit is loving and caring and openly communicative with others.

That love is really and truly our basest emotion.

That, beneath every other motive, caring for others is the most natural thing we do.

And that, when all other means of expression escape you, all you really need to do is reach out your arms in a hug.

Just like Matilda.

***

Thank you, Lisa, for tagging me to tell the story of my most memorable hug with the Blog Hug Award. (Lisa has been such a great friend to me while my husband has been away, as she is dealing with the same thing with her boyfriend, who is currently deployed with the Army. Go check out her blog!)
And now, I'd like to "hug" the following bloggers:

Gina at Namaste by Day
Katie at Loves of Life
Crazy Shenanigans
Lil' Woman at Little Woman, Little Home
Melissa G. at The Missionary Mama

Tell us the story of your most memorable hug, my dear ladies!

And as for the rest of you, play along, as well, if you'd like.

I hear by "hug" you, too! Happy Thursday everyone!

I Remember That

I wore heels to work yesterday.

Granted, they were actually more of a low, sandal-ed wedge. But still, they were spunky. They made my legs look longer and leaner - always one of my more shameful, aesthetic goals.

And, I'll admit, it felt a little sassy.

***

The night before, I read a book until I finished it. At 2:42 a.m. I got so wrapped up in it that I couldn't put it down.

My weariness was gone as I followed climbers on a terrifying real-life journey up and down Mt. Everest in the memoir Into Thin Air.

I finally feel asleep knowing I'd regret my literary choice the next day as I went through a full day of work on 3.5 hours of sleep.

Still, I'll admit, I didn't really care.

***

Less than two weeks ago, I got a pedicure. Instead of my normal shade of pink, I picked a orange-y coral. And on top, I added white polka dots.

It was a little silly; a little girly.

Yet, I'll admit, my own feet cheer me up now on a regular basis.

***

Perhaps you think I'm corny. You might even think I'm shallow a little.

But the funny thing is, even though I'm over-tired, with overly decorated, yet pinched, feet, I'm oddly exhilarated. I'm oddly, even, more alive.

More alive than when I get a full eight hours rest.

More alive than when I wear sensible flats.

More alive than when I let my tootsies run around bare and unpainted, au natural.

It's a weird phenomenon, really. Because I've spent the last three years of my life settling down into a 50-hour work-week, a marriage, a cup-a-day coffee habit, a life filled with sedate colors, practical footwear and a strict 10:30 p.m. bedtime.

And, I'll admit, I loved it. It worked for me; heck, it still works for me. I was able to put one orthopedically clad foot in front of the other and walk through my life as a professional and a wife.

I ate a well-balanced diet. I exercised regularly. I didn't imbibe toxic substances. I read astute literature on serious matters. I never showed up to a party under-dressed. I roused myself from a dead stupor to get to work, church, the grocery, and the doctor's office on time.

I'd grown up. Or, rather, embraced the old soul inside me that I'd always really been.

But, once and a while, I'd get an itch. An urge. A temptation.

I'd grow nostalgic for my old life. Or, rather, my "young adult" life.

The life I lived when I went to college, where I lived in an apartment with two of my best friends and ate an apple, a wedge of cheese, and popcorn for dinner.

The life where staying up past midnight was the norm.

The life where functioning on four hours of sleep was the average.

The life where you wore sweatpants, socks and clogs to class because you had no time to get dressed because you were running way late already and gosh darn it there was no way you'd be able to survive Professor Brown's two-hour droning lecture if you didn't have at least a jumbo-sized cup of coffee and an Everything Bagel with Reduced-Fat Schmear to tide you over until you made it the library's smoothie bar that afternoon before you headed over to that community service meeting about the homeless where you all were hopefully painting T-shirts assuming Clare remembered to bring all the supplies including the puffy paint which she forgot last time and almost ruined the whole thing for all of you.

I remember that.

I remember slogging around town in pajama pants one day, only to put on the most uncomfortable, itchy ensemble known to man the next day because you didn't want to lose face in front of your uber-perfect-looking lab partner.

I remember teaching seven hours worth of fitness classes on two hours of sleep because I'd been so intent on reading an entire novel one night that I actually drank a pot of coffee while doing so just so I could assure I'd stay awake.

I remember putting in hour after hour at the gym, worried about every inch of my physique, never realizing that at 21, I was in the best shape of my life, unaware that I'd never look that good again, but built with the stamina to run mile after mile and actually enjoy it.

I remember starting a women's community service organization with my best friend. Just because we could. Just because we got jazzed about the idea of holding weekly meetings where we could chat up the issues with our friends and eat cookies. And I remember running Habitat for Humanity trips with those same friends at 7 a.m., after we'd all stayed up the night before talking about guys, clothes, and world peace, like it was no big deal. Like we could save the world and have fun, too. On little to no sleep.

I remember wearing bright purple; I remember cutting the necks off my T-shirts so they slouched over my shoulder just so; I remember not buying groceries one week so I could pay for a manicure.

I remember that.

I'll admit, I don't really dwell there anymore, though.

At least not most of the time.

But occasionally, I'll get a blast from the past: An e-mail from the women's group we started, where I no longer know any of the members; a pair of gym shorts, buried at the bottom of my dresser drawer, with "Florida Gators" splashed across the rear; a picture, where I look amazingly happy and amazingly thin, dancing with my friends in pajamas in our apartment.

And I always smile.

Always.

Because I remember that.

I remember being that girl.

That fabulous, hysterical, overly concerned and unabashedly loud girl.

I remember her.

And sometimes, I miss her.

She never wore sensible flats; she never went to bed on time; she never considered rose-colored toe-nail polish.

She was sassy, and careless, and cheerful almost always.

She was wonderful.

And, once in a while, I realize she's not totally gone.

Because once in a while, she still stays up late to read a book.

Once in a while, she goes wild during a pedicure.

And, once in a while, she even forgoes her traditionally long skirt and flats to wear a knee-length number with heels.

She misses her free reign, it seems. She misses the haphazard living of life that so characterized that girl before she was a teacher, a wife, and a responsible, upstanding, tax-paying citizen.

But at least she's remembered. And fondly.

Because I remember her. I remember our life together.

Which is why, though I can never go back to being her, I try and let her peek out once in a great while.

So she can let me be spunky and care-free once more.

So once more, she can bury her head in a book about nothing and sing along to songs on the radio at the top of her lungs.

So once more, she can call up a friend and talk for 35 minutes straight about the latest gossip without stopping to catch her breath.

So once more, she can pretend to give up groceries this week to buy the low, sandal-ed wedges that make her legs look longer and leaner.

Because that girl was special. She did special things at special times in her own special way and apologized to no one about them.

Because I loved that girl.

And because I have to remember that.

***

Do you remember who you used to be? Do you miss her? I forget sometimes how much I do. Because I love my life now, but I loved my life then, too. And while I was never a wild-child, I was different when I was younger and independent. And sometimes, I miss that. Do you?

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

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!

Bedding down with the Dream Team: Polgyamists, students, and my red-headed toddler

Before I launch into what might possibly be the single most ridiculous post to date here at Living in the Moment, let me set two things straight:

First off, I rarely, if ever, dream. Or rather, if I'm dreaming, by the time I re-gain consciousness and screech awake to my early alarm, I don't remember a wink of it.

Second, in the occasional dream I remember once every three years or so, I'm rarely, if ever, doing anything exciting. My dreams consist of me pushing my way through a grocery store, only to find - horror of horrors! - that I'm unable to find the dried pineapple.

Or, in the most vivid of my dream scenarios, I'm in my classroom, and all my kids are screaming for my attention and refusing to learn the lesson at hand. Which, basically, is like watching a home movie of my life because - let's face it - that's exactly what happens to me almost every day.

My brain in dreamland? Not exactly record-breaking.

When it comes down to it, I'm no creative artist.

Or so I thought, until last night, when - it has to be said - I went to bed like I do every night, exhausted and strung out on folic acid, Vitamin C, and fish oil.

I promptly passed out and began to slip into dream world...

Dream Brittany awakens to find her husband is gone. He's not next to her in bed. He's not in the rest of the house, but - uh-oh - his car, running shoes, keys, wallet, and cell phone are all in their normal places of rest.

Dream Brittany becomes a little disconcerted, but doesn't freak out until she ventures into her nursery. (Yes, apparently Dream Brittany has a baby.)

It is in this moment that Dream Brittany realizes that her 18-month-old baby boy - who is fair-skinned and carrot-topped (which is odd because neither my husband nor I have those features) - has been taken out of his crib.

Now, Dream Brittany's panicking. She's running around the house crying for her red-headed child and missing husband.

So she does what seems to be the most obvious choice considering the circumstances:

She calls one of her 12th-grade students. Because heaven knows, when panicked, calling teenage boys works better than 911 every time.

During this phone conversation with her student, Dream Brittany finds out that his little 10-year-old brother has turned up missing as well.

Drama ensues.

Dream Brittany and Dream Student hem and haw about what to do, and again, Dream Brittany shows unseasonable calm and expertise when she suggests they call - you guessed it - another student; this time an 11th-grade girl she teaches.

So after Dream Brittany rallies the troops - her Dream Students - they all head out all over town searching for their missing sibling, spouse and red-headed child, respectively.

Or, rather, the Dream Students do most of searching while dragging Dream Brittany around while she has a bit of break-down, which was characterized in the dream by the fact that she kept calling her mother and wailing on her cell phone that "My Baby Loves are gone, Mom! And. I. Don't. Know. What. To. Doooooooooo!!! WAAAA!"

Finally, some ominous elderly citizen points whining Dream Brittany and the Dream Students - who from this point forward shall be referred to as the "Dream Team" - toward a section of the town they had yet to search.

And just like that, the Dream Team follows the citizen's outstretched finger to the end of his block, where, smack dab in the middle of Florida, there's a desert town.

Literally, a desert, complete with large shanty-like houses.

The Dream Team wanders close enough to realize they've stumbled upon some polygamist group - denoted by the fact that the women were all dressed just like those polygamist mothers who had their children seized in Texas last year. (This is not meant to be offensive. In my dream, the Dream Team and I seemed to implicitly understand that these were the neighborhood's friendly bunch of polygamists. What can I say? Dream Brittany had a mind of her own.)

Only when we right upon the polygamist town do we notice cowboy-look-alikes are pacing toward us, bearing machetes, no less.

Yes, big, bold machetes. Coming right at us.

Apparently, the Dream Team wasn't welcome there.

Because - duh! - these polygamists had kidnapped our family members.

I think it was the machetes that clued the Dream Team into what was going on, don't you?

So anyways, Dream Brittany, seeing the machetes and sensing imminent danger, does what any normal woman would do when facing death, kidnapping, and a machete-barrier between her and her family.

She called her mommy.

Yes, she called her mom and cried, begged, and pleaded for help.

And Dream Brittany's mom - like any good superhero - answered the call.

In fact, seconds later, Dream Brittany's mom came hustling down to that polygamist ranch and went into a back room with the machete-bearing cowboys (because apparently, my mother has no fear. And I have no shame, letting her go in there, with those machete-bearing men, unarmed and alone.)

Still, minutes later, she returned, smugly smiling.

Apparently, Dream Mommy had brokered a deal.

Because right behind Dream Mommy was Dream Brittany's husband, holding her red-headed toddler.

The hubs - obviously starved and tortured after hours in polygamist slavery - was skin and bones. His emaciated state so upset Dream Brittany that she begins to openly sob, in front of God, her students, and arms-bearing polygamists.

Upon further examining his skeletal appearance, Dream Brittany then gets all dramatic and, quite literally, falls to the ground, kissing her husband and holding her baby and crying, crying, crying.

She's so happy! She's so relieved! She's so...awake.

And just like that, I woke up sweating at 3:45 a.m.

Desperately panicked. Heart beating. Feeling around for my husband's body to make sure he was there.

Luckily, he was. And luckier still, Dream Brittany was gone.

But Real-Life Brittany was still significantly freaked out.

To be perfectly honest, I don't believe in interpreting dreams. But I'm fairly sure that what is on our minds and hearts and bodies can affect what we dream. Or I'm assuming so, since - until last night - I'd considered myself quite the dream novice, as I've explained.

So my question is: Where did all that come from? What brought that on? And why did I finally experience a dream I can recall in perfect detail?

But, most importantly, do you really think my first-born will be a red-head?

***

I'll be honest. I debated not sharing this with you all. Because seriously, how weird am I? I'm a little scared of myself right now.

So if you're still stickin' around after today's little trip into my subconscious, I really appreciate it.

I'll tone down the crazy around here tomorrow, I promise.

Until then, Happy Thursday everyone!

Here's to being resolute!

I have a thing for resolutions.

Being abnormally task-oriented, I find myself freakishly motivated by lists and goals.

And so, at the beginning of every year, I take great joy in creating the mack-daddy of all to-do lists: New Year's Resolutions.

Of course, my momentum tends to wane when I can't accomplish everything on my list in a period of about 24 hours.

So the whole year-long resolution concept is a bit null and void for me.

I'm quite sure I don't remember a single resolution from last year; not a one.

But then again, last year, I didn't have a blog, which just so happens to serve as an excellent social networking tool, but can also do double-duty as a Commitment-Enforcing Officer - i.e., once I put it out on the World Wide Web, it never truly goes away.

In essence, I have to do it. (Or perish from the public humiliation I'll surely receive after I admit that I did not do a single one of the three things I intended to accomplish this year. For shame!)

It's a bit of a trial by fire, but in this case, I feel it might be necessary.

So, what do I hope to accomplish all the livelong year?

What does 2010 hopefully hold for me? What are my must-dos for the next 12 months?

And, most importantly, what will you have to read about incessantly for the next 365 days? (My sincerest apologies, in advance.)

***

1. I intend to create more community.
I have this nasty little habit of prioritizing necessary tasks over social opportunities. For instance, after I got married, I found myself forgoing time with friends to stay home and finish all the dirty laundry. Or I'd insist that before I was allowed to go grab dinner with some close confidantes, I had to finish writing my holiday thank-you notes.

I cut phone calls short to go make dinner; I interacted less with the women around me because I'd choose to stay home and bang out some project instead of going shopping or to a pottery class.

I blamed it on the fact that I spent most of my working days surrounded by needy teenagers and my nights surrounded by adults I was in charge of training; I maintained that, sometimes, I just needed to be alone, even if that meant sitting on top of my washing machine folding underwear instead of having a cup of tea with a friend.

But seeing as how I'm soon moving to an entirely new city - where I know approximately zero people - I can't do that anymore. There won't be my stand-by group of friends waiting for me to emerge from my freshly laundered solitude.

The fact is, I won't have any friends there.

If I want them, I'm going to have to make them.

I'm going to have to drop the broom and dustpan and get back out there; back out into the real world. I'm going to have to join a women's group at church, participate in a book club, bake with my neighbor, or - eek! - join a complete group of strangers for a playdate.

I didn't realize how difficult this would be for me until I went to my first blogger meet-up last week. Seriously, I was so nervous, I almost talked myself out of going. I was sweating like a pig by the time I got myself there with "What if they don't like me?" fears.

Thankfully, the women I met there were wonderful. I was reluctant to leave - after chatting with them for more than four hours! I sincerely felt like I'd been in the presence of long-time friends.

From Left to Right: Jess from All-American Jess, Justine from Almost There, Lil' Woman from Little Woman, Little Home, and me

It was as I was driving away from these lovely ladies that I realized how important it would be for me to participate in other "play-dates," of sorts.

A girl can only do so much laundry before she gets lonely.

2. I want to focus on peace, not perfection.
I take multi-vitamins, but barely sleep six hours a night. I run, cycle and lift weights, but rarely stretch or do self-massage. I want a baby, but have a coffee addiction so severe I'm afraid to see what will happen when I have to quit cold turkey when I get pregnant.

I'm one big, walking oxymoron.

For so long, my life was about being healthy and attractive. Even if that meant drinking fake sweeteners, eating fat-free, rubbery cheese, and running until my feet were so swollen that I couldn't stand on my own most mornings.

As a trainer, I'm all too aware of the difference between healthy and high-strung, and I'll be totally honest, I flirt with the line in between a bit too frequently.

So this year, I'm vowing to sleep more, to practice more yoga, to cut way back on caffeine, and to eat to nourish my body - not to shape it.

I want to be at peace with life and my body's processes, instead of focusing on how my body appears or what it's supposed to be doing. I'm going to learn to accept the fact that my body will not ever appear as it did when I was 21; that my body is inevitably going to change when I get pregnant; that my hips will probably not be any worse for the wear if I don't do cardio six days a week.

Even if that means I - gasp! - gain a couple of pounds. (Quick Note: I deleted and re-wrote that last sentence four times. Obviously, I'm still not totally comfortable with the idea. This is going to be an interesting year, me thinks.)

3. I hope to pray more and control less.
I worry. All the time.

I worry about car accidents and the war in the Middle East and how many trans-fats there are in my husband's lunch.

And because I worry, I cry. A lot.

I get so freaked out that I often break down into tears. All the time.

And if I'm not crying, I'm usually trying to manhandle God's will - and everyone else's, for that matter - under my control. I'm constantly arm-wrestling for a sense of power or a sense of security. (Boy, I sound like a bit of a tyrant here, don't I?)

I find it very hard to have uncertainty in my life; I find it very hard to just let things happen. I much prefer to make them happen.

In fact, if I had my way, I'd schedule when it would be most convenient for them to happen.

Except, when trying to schedule and win a Thumb War against myself and life in general, I often lose.

And then, the tears kick in again.

So this year, I'm going to release my destiny, if you will.

I'm going to let it happen when God intends it to happen; I'm not going to man-handle my existence into the box that I deem satisfactory, even if I cry myself to death from the discomfort it causes me.

I may put my desires out there in prayer, maybe even voice them among my friends, but then, I'm going to let them go.

I'm not going to fixate on things that have to happen or things that must be done a certain way.
Because when I do, it makes me a bear to live with (my poor husband,) and it makes me unhappy. (Poor me!)

I'll do what I can do to make life great for my husband, myself, my family, and those around me.

And the rest I'm leaving up to Someone wiser - and far less tearful - than me.

***

So cross your fingers and say a little prayer that we all get what we're resolute about in 2010.

I know I'm already thinking months ahead, dreaming of babies and an easy, successful move by the East Coast.

And I'm really hoping these three resolutions will prepare me for whatever changes the next 12 months hold.

So here's to the New Year! May it bring us all our hearts' desire!

Happy Tuesday everyone!