How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Daniel had the opportunity to spend the month of July attending a class at an Air Force base in Destin (stupid Air Force), so it seemed like the perfect time for a little getaway.  The plan was for Daniel to arrive, as scheduled, on a Sunday, then I was to fly in on Tuesday.  Before either of us could leave, there was much for us to do.  I packed, I planned, and I made reservations.  I lost five pounds, I found a bathing suit that didn't make me want to weep when I looked in the mirror, and I got my hair done.  I waxed, I shaved, I plucked, and I sprayed.  Daniel bought a new pair of goggles. 

The waiting area at my departure gate in Shreveport was fairly crowded, so I sat relatively close to a couple who was waiting for the same flight.  She was wearing a ring, he wasn't, and she was flipping through a bridal magazine, so I assume they are engaged. As I settled in to wait for the boarding call, I heard the woman whisper in a voice as big as her behind hair, "Honey, am I hotter'n her?"  I looked over each of my shoulders to see who she could possibly be referring to.  As luck would have it, I was seated with my back against a wall, and in case there was any doubt she was talking about me, she was now pointing at me as well.  I sat there, mouth agape, as her fiance assured her, over and again,  that she was "way hotter'n" me. I immediately took a picture of the couple and sent it to two very impartial judges: my husband, and a dear friend who, technically, has never met me in person.  Both were quick to guarantee me that these people were clearly deranged, and I departed Shreveport with my dignity relatively intact. 

Once in Florida, my holiday really began.  People often use vacation as a time to really let their hair down; they do things they would never do under normal circumstances.  Some people get drunk, some people get tattoos, I wore flip-flops.  I hate flip-flops.  I mean I really, truly, loathe them.  I hate the way they look, I hate the way they feel, I hate that stupid flippy-floppy sound they make as they slap against heels desperately in need of some pedicureal attention.  I hate that it has become acceptable to don them to any/all occasions.  I've seen them in offices and job interviews, at weddings and funerals.  Try as designers may to fancy them up with leather, satin, or sparkles, they remain, to me, no different than the disposable pair given away with every pedicure at Happy Golden Nail.  Face it, folks, the Emperor's got no shoes.  All vitriol aside, I decided to borrow a pair from my sister and see what all the fuss was about.  I still hate them, but at least now my criticisms come from personal experience.  PLUS, I can now cross one more thing off of my bucket list (not wearing flip-flops, but crazily ranting about them in a semi-public forum). 

All too soon, it was time to return home.  I must have had some truly gnarly karma coming my way, as I was seated in the Obnoxious Children section of the plane. OH, and did I mention that I was, once again, seated within judging distance of my favorite engaged couple?  Anyway, The children were all horrible- screaming, kicking, crying, yelling.  I had my fingers crossed in hopes of a sudden change in cabin pressure.  I had daydreams of wildly snatching every oxygen mask as it dropped from the overhead compartments.  Rationally, I knew that these children had paid for tickets just as I had.  I was wondering if they had as much right to behave normally, as I had to experience a quiet flight, when it hit me... No, literally, a metal Thomas the Tank Engine sailed from somewhere behind me and struck me in the side of my face.  I turned around to congratulate the little beast who winged it- he clearly has a bright future in the San Quentin softball league ahead of him.  His mother never looked at me, but simply held out her hand for the toy and muttered an apology.  I was thisclose to tackling the Air Marshall and stealing his gun.  I hear Florida doesn't look down on juvenilicide as much as it used to. 

So that's how I spent my summer vacation.  Overall, I had a good time.  And although ridiculous things seem to happen to me where ever I go, I generally tell myself, "Well, at least I'll get a blog out of this."

Tie a Yellow Ribbon... Round My Neck

I have several friends who welcomed back their husbands from a deployment this week. It made me think of my own experiences with deployment, and how I assumed my feelings about it were unorthodox. That is, until I started to open up about them. Turns out, I'm not such a weirdo (about this, anyway).
　
　
　
Deployment is an inevitability in today's military. At least, it has been for the nine years I've been a part of it. While all branches of the military deploy, for the purposes of this rant, I will only be dealing with real deployments. If your Airman gets sent to Diego Garcia for a four month vacation, this post ain't for you. Not to trivialize the Air Force deployment schedule, but, c'mon. If I sound bitter and jealous, it's because I am. Anyway, I'm talking about year-long tours of scenic Iraq and Afghanistan. I was fully prepared for them to suck, and, they do- but not for the reasons I was expecting.
　
My husband's first deployment was to Afghanistan. We were newly married and living in Germany. In fact, we spent our first anniversary surrounded by boxes, eating a candlelight dinner off of a footlocker filled with kevlar. It was hooah romance at its finest. The next day, we boarded planes headed in opposite directions; he headed East, and I headed West, back to Louisiana. There was the typical silly nonsense- racking sobs, promises to kiss our wedding picture every day, etc.* And I was a mess, too. I loved my life, I loved my marriage, and I remember wondering how I was going to make it an entire year alone. I shouldn't have worried. That deployment did suck, but, for me, the especially sucky part wasn't realizing that I couldn't function without my husband, it was realizing that I could- and that I LIKED it.
　
Once I got used to being alone, which was, admittedly, kind of strange, I started to see the beauty in deployment. I had no responsibilities, tons of disposable income, and no one to discuss my decisions with. It. Was. Awesome. We were able to keep in touch via phone and email, so it wasn't like we never got to communicate. We even had little games. Daniel would tease me by sending cheesy Army Wife sayings like "real love is trading in your pearls for his dog tags", and "I'm the pink in his world of camo", and I would send him pictures of me retching. We're romantical like that. The hardest part, by far, was the first month after his return. He came home, and, suddenly, I was expected to leave friends I loved, and a job I greatly enjoyed, in order to move back to a country that, frankly, wasn't my favorite in the EU. I felt angry and resentful, which, in turn, led to feeling of immense guilt. The life I made myself didn't matter; my soldier was home, and I felt the Army shoe horn prying me out of my Prada wedges, and stuffing me back into combat boots. The Army's main concern (rightfully) is the soldier. I can't tell you how many briefings, pamphlets, and the like I was given on how to ease the soldier's transition back into normal life. This was all great, but I would have been so relieved to hear that redeployment is hard for the family, too. After several weeks of reacclimation, we got our respective grooves back, and I felt better prepared to handle the next deployment. Wrong!
　
Deployment number two differed in a couple of distinct ways; Daniel headed to Iraq, and I had a deployment buddy. K was a four month old blob when her daddy left. He returned to a walking, talking ball of independence. K and I had our own schedule, our own way of doing things. She did not especially enjoy a strange man coming into the picture and bossing her around. To be perfectly honest, I didn't either. It took me a while to accept that he was every bit as much K's parent as I was. If I asked Daniel to help with K, but he didn't do things exactly how I would do it, I would immediately become irritated and take over. Rationally, I knew that his methods were perfectly acceptable, but I've never been accused of being overly rational. You changed her before giving her a bottle? Outside without a hat, really?? Forget Fallujah, Daniel should have been receiving hazardous duty pay at home. Thankfully, at this point in our marriage, Daniel knew how to speak my language. "Kitt, deal with it." That's not a direct quote, but you get the gist- I did, anyway. As before, things settled down, we settled in, and I settled for being second banana. K is nothing if not a daddy's girl.
　
Despite the things I enjoy about deployments- independence, less-than-regular leg shaving, and homecoming ceremonies (it's like having a front row seat for the most delightfully trash-tastic fashion show you've ever seen), I would prefer to keep my husband stateside. Of course, the Army rarely takes my preferences into consideration. If it did, our next move would be to Bali. I bet there's an Air Force base in Bali. Stupid Air Force. I don't know if another deployment is in our future. But I do know to take it as it comes, to expect the unexpected, and to keep the homefires burning- so as to easily burn all those cheesy Army Wife stickers.
　
*This episode may or may not have been amplified (read: fabricated) for comedic effect. To the best of my knowledge, Daniel does not have a wedding picture, and if last season's Longhorns didn't evoke racking sobs, a year-long vacation from me certainly wouldn't.

1,2,3,4 I Declare a Mommy War

Sorry, boys. This one's for the ladies.

Recently, a friend of mine used Facebook to post an article reporting that $3.6 billion dollars in medical expenses could be saved each year if the number of children breastfed for at least six months increased by 50 percent. It was like the shot heard 'round the world. Or, the post heard 'round her Facebook page, at least. Suddenly, she had twenty responses from women who were declaring allegiances and turning on each other faster than a group of Junior Leaguers at a Kate Spade clearance. All my friend was trying to do was report a statistic she found personally interesting. Instead, she became the latest casualty of the Mommy War.

The Mommy War is the ongoing battle orchestrated and fought by modern mothers who think that our way of raising children is best. We all fight under the guise of doing what's best for the children, but I think the end game for many of us is moral superiority. As much as I would like to claim neutrality here, I cannot. No, the real Switzerland in the Mommy War is inhabited by the childless. Some of these ladies may feel a pull toward one side or the other, but they mainly think (correctly) that we're all nuts. I know, because I used to live in Switzerland, too.

Sadly, I am admitting to being a participant in this conflict. It's not my fault; they include draft cards in those boxes of home pregnancy tests. It's like the worst cereal box prize ever. Seriously, though, you are expected to take a side the minute you see that stick turn blue. Caffeine during pregnancy? Doc or Midwife? Bradley or Epidural? Women are thrown on the front lines before you can say "Boppy". The two biggest armies are the United States of Crunch, and the Republic of Shut the Eff Up and Let Me Raise My Kid the Way I Want. For ease of reading, the latter will henceforth be referred to as "The Wrong Way". Whoops, sorry- they trained me as a sniper in boot camp. All kidding aside, the hits just keep on coming after labor. Breastfeeding, circumcision, vaccines, disposable diapers, organic foods, daycare... the road between hospital (or birthing venue of your choice) and home is littered with Mommy War landmines. Step carefully, my friend.

I am all for women educating themselves, and making parenting choices that work best them. However, I HATE that we are brandishing our personal decisions in a way that makes other mothers feel bad about themselves. And, if I'm perfectly honest, I've both wielded the blade and felt its sting. Every time I go to a cookout, I bring my own food for Karolina. Then, when someone inevitably asks me why, I announce, loudly and proudly, that I don't allow my child to eat hotdogs. More often than not, I'm standing over the children's table filled with hotdog scarfing kiddos. Why? Why do I do that? I could just feed her at home before we leave. I could just fill her plate with other foods I'm okay with. But no, I strap on my bomb, push the button, and wait for my virgins. Now, before you start taking me off your Christmas Card list, let me say this: Neither of my children has ever been given ANY vaccines.  See? I guarantee that some of you think that is incredibly irresponsible, and you would never put your child at risk like that.

The worst part about Mommy War, is that we declared it on ourselves. And it has gotten so out of hand, that otherwise sane, educated, rational women are utterly incapable of holding civil debate on these hot-button issues. Stating your opinion is viewed as an attack on the opposition. Period. We are taking the one thing that is uniquely female- motherhood- and using it to tear each other apart. We've gone from women's suffrage, to women's sufferage. So, this is it. I'm laying down my arms, waving my white flag, and signing the peace treaty. While I will continue to be a proud citizen of the United States of Crunch, I won't beat you down to see things our way. (Our borders are open if you want to stop by.) I will no longer announce my parenting decisions. I will remember that other mothers' choices, while none of my business, are made with love and in the best interest of the child. Nothing is more important than that. Besides, in the sage words of Axl Rose, what's so civil about war, anyway?