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?

I Am My Own Existence, Nothing More (and other existentialist crap)

How important is sense of self?  I think that most people have an awareness, at least subconsciously, of the labels that define them.  Teacher, husband, mother, son, friend- just a few of a million labels that we combine in a unique way and don like haute couture.  Titles woven into my own fabric include intelligent, stay-at-home mother, and wife.  Generally, I've been pleased with my personal ensemble, but last week, life pulled a loose thread and left me hanging bare like some sad, past her prime chick on a Girls Gone Wild video.

It all started because I was bored.  I decided to either get my hair cut, or start graduate school.  Having found no decent stylist in Leesville, I opted to hit the books.  In true Kitt fashion, I chose a school, degree plan, and career path in roughly 12 hours.  I had just over two weeks to submit my application, which was to include a qualifying GRE score.  No problem.  I've never been good at sports or mechanics, but I can rock a standardized test.  I am, after all, intelligent.  As far as I could see, the biggest hurdle was obtaining the proper identification to present the testing center; it had to have a recent picture and have my name listed as Olivia Hall Squyres.  The problem was that my current driver's license still featured my maiden name, despite the fact that I've been married for eight years.  Which leads us to...

The Mansfield DMV.  It is the place to go for all of your vehicular needs.  There is never a wait, and you will always know at least one of the employees.  Usually, this is a minus, but when dealing with a soulless demon institution like the Department of Motor Vehicles, it's always better to have an in.  Anywho, I went to get my new license, and was told I needed an official copy of my marriage license from the courthouse.  Ten minutes later, I was staring at my marriage license in disbelief.  I had signed it, my pastor signed it, my witnesses signed it, that homeless guy down the street signed it, everyone signed it.  Except Daniel.  I took it back to the DMV and asked if I could still have my name changed to Squyres.  "Sure," the lady said, "but you should get that checked out.  I don't think you're really married, and that's a shame 'cause it was a real beautiful weddin."  Oh, and PS about the Mansfield DMV- they have truly excellent lighting.  I look younger in my new picture than I did in the one taken 9 years ago.  That alone was worth the absolution of my marriage.

So who am I?  I'm not a wife, so I'm a girlfriend?  I have to say, I'm bitter.  I was bamboozled into thinking he bought the cow.  Meanwhile, all of his dairy has been supplied gratis.  And I'm no longer a stay-at-home mother, so I'm an unemployed baby mama??  What am I going to do?  I guess I could get a job and provide for myself, but my brother-in-law pointed out that I probably qualify for government assistance now.  This sounds much better to me!  Great- now I'm a Democrat.  And another thing- I've been spending all these years adhering to our monthly budget, but it's quite possible that my current disposable income is less than what Daniel's monthly child support payment would be.  I wants my money, and I wants it now.  I can't believe he didn't sign the marriage license, but he signed both birth certificates.  Sucker!

Back on the market, I figured acing the GRE was even more important.  I have young coeds to charm.  I had plenty of people encouraging me to study, but truthfully, I've never had to study for that type of test in my life.  I mean, I may be a common-law hussy, but I'm no idiot, right?  Long story short... I'm an idiot.  I don't know if that test legitimately kicked my butt, or if my newly acquired persona influenced my testing ability, but trust me when I say Harvard won't be knocking down my door anytime soon.  Truthfully, my score did qualify for my chosen program, but it was nowhere near my personal expectations.  I haven't received my score on the writing portion yet.  If I crap out on that part, I'm shutting Kittastrophe down and taking up bird watching.

Kitt Hall Squyres...  Baby Mama, Live-in Companion, Simpleton, Snarky, Humbled.

Land of the Free, and the Home of the Me

It seems to be the common consensus these days that America isn't the great country it used to be.  Some blame Bush, others blame Obama.  I blame Oprah.  You see, Oprah was the first person to introduce the idea of "Me Time", and the rest of us just took it and ran.  Somewhere along the way, Me Time mated with technology, and Facebook was born.  Then, that bastard Facebook held a caucus with iPhone, and the result was the preeminent profile picture.  You know the one-- self portrait took at a down angle from extended arm, boobs pushed out, squinty eyes, pouty lips.  To be fair, if I had any boobs and/or lips to speak of, I'd probably have this picture too.  Then again, that hasn't stopped scads of pre-pubescent girls (and some dudes) from adopting this signature pose again, and again, and again.  How many pictures does one need of one's self, anyway?  But I digress... My point is that we have become so egocenric, that the state of our union can hardly come as a surprise.  If divided we stand, then united we fall. 

Me Time (MT) is the idea that if we spend any time focused on our jobs or on others, we become entitled, nay, obligated to spend some time on ourselves.  Really?  This nonsense seems to run especially rampant among stay-at-home mothers.  And their MT drug of choice?  The spa.  I must say, I'm kind of surprised all the revenue generated by the hoards of mani-pedi seekers isn't doing a better job of stimulating the economy.  I stay at home with my two children.  Yes, it's busy, but I can hardly call it stressfull, especially considering occupations such as military, police, and Kardashian.  I mean, no job that lets you wear pajamas all day and considers teeth-brushing optional is going to land you in the hospital with ulcers.  My life is hardly all kids, all the time.  Once a week I treat myself to a grocery excursion, and I almost always get 2-3 solo bathroom trips a day.  My grandmother raised fourteen children.  I'd love to be able to go back and ask her opinion of MT, though I suspect she would have been far more interested in the concepts of Food on the Table, and Clothes on Our Backs. 

Generally, I would use this paragraph to explore the various ways men use MT.  However, I have had an exceptionally difficult time finding a man who will admit to taking time for himself.  Key word: ADMIT.  Daniel likes to point out that during his last deployment, he had exactly 16 days off- in a year.  He thinks MT is just something "chicks do", but I contend that no female I am aware of ever uses the bathroom as her own personal library.  Fellas, you're finding pockets of solitude somewhere. 

Don't get me wrong- I'm not saying that people shouldn't take time for themselves.  I'm not saying people don't deserve time for themselves.  Hell, I'm not all together sure where my 10 month old is right now, but I'm still taking the time to bloviate (pot, kettle much?).  I just think there is a time and a place for everything.  I see far too many people focusing on the prize without giving the actual task at hand much thought.  My fellow Americans, we should band together, roll up our sleeves, and rob Oprah.  I think there's about $8 in it for each of us if my math is correct- although it probably isn't since I used my 6 years in college to major in Me Time. 

Petty in Pink

Hollywood, may I have a word?

Last night, Daniel and I saw a movie in the theater.  This is an exceedingly rare occurrence, and I was jazzed to see what is being hailed as a razor-sharp chick flick, written by and for women.  Yes!  Finally, a story revolving around smart, successful, modern women!  Apparently, the critics and I must have seen different movies.  In our movie, the protagonist was a broke, homeless, victim of the recession, who was forced to endure the most horrible of all female experiences-- life with no mans.  But fear not!  In the end, she found a boyfriend and they lived happily ever after.  Oh, make no mistake, she still was living with her mother, unable to pay her bills, and both job and car-less.  BUT she found a penis-equipped companion, so cue the music and let those credits roll!

This movie had it all- aesthetically pleasing bitch, horny bored housewife, insipid virginal newlywed.  Oh, and of course, the group wouldn't, couldn't be complete without an overweight woman serving as comedic relief.  She wasn't witty per se, but she was... you know... fat.  Everyone knows a chunky lady doing anything is hilarious, but a fat chick having the audacity to go out to eat, or attend a party, or flirt with a dude?? Comedy gold!

Why why why are these antiquated female stereotypes still being forced down our throats in the name of entertainment?  And an even better question- why are we still buying it?  The only thing this movie was missing was a lingerie-laden pillow fight, but I hear there's a sequel in the works, so here's hoping.

My Mother, Richard Dean Anderson

There's been a lot of mom stuff going around in honor of Mother's Day. I am choosing to honor my mother via blog, because she would waterboard me if I put her picture on Facebook. Simply put, Brenda kicks ass. Even though a lot of women cringe at the thought of turning into their mothers, I welcome it. This is fortuitous, as I have been not-so-slowly morphing into a Brenda clone. We are both loud, assertive, obsessively detail oriented, and competitive. Roland and Daniel are lucky, lucky men, right? We are also funny, dependable, modest, and seriously smokin hot. There is one area, though, where my mother totally and singularly rules- she is motherfrickin Macgyver.

When Mama was six or seven, she decided she wanted a swimming pool. It never occurred to her to ask for one, and she wasn't interested in a public pool. Brenda wanted her own, personal in-ground, and she was going to build it herself. She dug for days until she finally had a decent sized hole. I'm not sure exactly how deep it was, but it was deep enough to, well... keep reading. Her work was done and after a big, Louisiana rain, her pool was open for business. It's worth noting that this grand opening coincided with either her first communion or Easter. I can't remember which, but church and a nice dress were involved. Not wanting to get dirty before mass, but unable to wait until after, she decided to fashion a boat out of a large pot. Now as any culinary dredgeman can attest, pot boating is the most efficient way of simultaneously examining the bottom of a body of water and ruining a Sunday dress. I don't know the severity of her punishment, but I do know that to this day, I have never seen my mother in a swimming pool.

By the time Callie and I came along, Mama's ingenuity and common sense were evenly matched. Once, when I was in second grade, my teacher held a "Backwards Day". Everyone was to creatively showcase backwardness, and a winner would be named. (At this time, my ENTIRE elementary school, grades k-4, was housed in ONE gymnasium. What's more backwards than that?) Anyway, I mentioned the contest to my mother as she was putting me to bed the night before. She was shocked that I'd waited until the last minute, but promised she'd think of something. I woke up next morning to find an eerily accurate replica of my head. I wore my HEAD backwards to Backwards Day. Can you believe I didn't win?? Apparently, Mrs Lewis thought I had help with my costume, so she gave the prize to Stacy Mclain who wore her earrings backwards. Whatever.

Similarly, Callie decided at the last minute she wanted to go trick-or-treating one Halloween. Fifteen minutes later, people opened their doors to a little girl in curlers, a robe, and face full of Pond's with a typing paper cigarette dangling from her lips. Standing beside her was store bought Gremlin, but she didn't get nearly as much candy. I guess people couldn't see my- I mean her winning smile behind that plastic mask.

And the hits keep on coming. A few years ago, a storm came through and took out our electricity for several days. We had a full house including several extended family members. I watched my mother prepare a three-course meal using votive candles and a butter knife. And just a few weeks ago, I had a minor surgery. The doctor didn't give me the appropriate dressing, so Mama made one using an ace bandage, some scotch tape, a Target coupon, and a cotton ball.

I could easily make this entry one in a series of love letters to my mother. We speak several times daily, and there is still no one I'd rather war plan with. We love every single moment we spend together. I sincerely pray to have that kind of relationship with my girls one day, although I'll never be able to replicate Mama's resourcefulness.  But who knows, maybe I've got a burgeoning Macgyver Brenda of my own.  Happy Mother's Day!

Gone With the Kin

Daniel had a busy week with crazy hours last week, so I packed up the girls and headed to my parents' house in Stonewall.  My sister, Callie, is pregnant with triplets and riding out her quasi-bedrest there, so I like to visit and help out when I can.  All was going well until until a cold front and low pressure system blew into town.

It was a dark and stormy night.  Suddenly, Entertainment Tonight was interrupted by the local ABC affiliate.  I was irritated!  If I can't find out what Lindsey wore to her latest court appearance,  how will I know what to wear next time I violate probation?  Anyway, the weather guy tells me that tornadoes are imminent, and to take cover.  My first feeling was of relief; I was grateful to be with my family.  This was immediately followed by sheer panic.  I was about to be confined, in a tiny cupboard, WITH MY FAMILY!  I gathered K and Evie, and headed to the little pantry under the stairs with Callie, her husband, Arnold, and my mother, Brenda. Thankfully, my father was in Shreveport during this time.  Not that I wouldn't have enjoyed his company, but we were quickly running out of real estate.

The issue with being cooped up with anyone, is that quickly all of your individual eccentricities bubble to the surface.  For example, my sister is a total germaphobe, and my mother is only slightly less of one.  I used to be uptight about germs, especially as it pertained to Karolina, but nowadays, unless I can actually see tetanus or feces on an object, it's fair game.  Had a sneeze occurred in that closet, Callie would have repeatedly gagged, my mother would have held her breath for a far-too-extended period of time, and I would have been grateful for the breeze.  We are a cast of characters not soon forgotten. 

I'll begin with Brenda.  My mother is absolutely obsessed with any/everything made in China.  You cannot convince her that it isn't full of lead.  And unless you can show her documentation proving that an object and all it's parts are manufactured elsewhere, be prepared for the lead lecture.  I swear I had to keep Evangeline suspended in my arms, because the floor of that closet? Lead.  The paint on the walls? Lead (She doesn't trust the lead-free label to be truthful).  The carbon dioxide emitted from our collective exhalations?  Full of lead. 

Next, meet Callie and Arnold.  My sister is a nurse, and her husband is a physician.  They speak in strictest medical terms, causing an ignorant bystander (me) to feel as though she's had stroke, rendering her incapable of understanding English. I'm not exactly sure what or where Callie's inferior vena cava is, but apparently, those babies like sitting on it.  And while I'm on the subject of Dr and Mrs Barz, have I mentioned that they are in love?  They hunkered down in that closet, holding hands and telling each other how thankful they were to be together.  I was starting to get a little green (jealousy? nausea?), when my phone rang.  Yes!  It was Daniel!  I was about to show Callie that she wasn't the only one with a schmoopie-oopkins.  Triumphantly smirking, I turned my phone's volume up loud so that everyone could hear the depth of emotion in Daniel's voice.   

"Hello?"

"Duuuude!!!  The radar looks gross in Stonewall, glad I'm not there."

"Don't worry about us, Sweetie.  But just in case the rescue teams need to know where to dig to find my lifeless body, I'm in the closet under the stairs."

"Okay.  Have you seen my swim goggles?"

I know.  I'm getting a little misty-eyed just thinking about it. 

To be perfectly fair, I'm sure it wasn't a picnic being cooped up with me, either.  I'm loud.  I make inappropriate jokes.  I have a potty mouth.  I play diaper chicken with my mother (I pretend not to smell the truly noxious fumes emanating from my kid's diaper, in the hopes that my mother will change it first).  I prefer Hillary Clinton to Sarah Palin.  Throw that little lib grenade in my house-- you can actually hear the blood pressure rising.

In the end, though, we weathered the storm.  In fact, it was kind of fun. We didn't have water, food, matches, candles, flashlights, or batteries in that closet, (I could write an entire separate blog about what we did have in there), but there was a whole lot of love.  I'd duck and cover with those jokers any day.