Breaking Ice & Making Nice

This is How We Do It

Over the past couple of years, various friends have asked me what I do to help the kids through deployment. Here are the few of ways that we celebrate Daddy and survive the underway season:

When One of the Boys Starts Missing Daddy...

We go all Peter Pan on the moment and think of the happiest thing! Sometimes Mo or Kel will feel sad about Daddy's absence. We talk about their feelings, and then I ask my child to think of one thing he would really like to do with Daddy when he gets home. Then, we add that activity to our list of "things we like to do with Daddy." When the CDR gets home, he has a ready-made list of kid-friendly fun (and I have a date with the mall).

When Mama is Too Tired to Read Bedtime Stories...

Daddy does it for her! Before the CDR left last year, he recorded almost 20 different bedtime stories on an old cassette tape recorder. The boys love pulling out a tape, placing it into the compartment, and pressing the big "play" button. Then they hear Daddy's voice, and their faces go absolutely golden. All I have to do is turn the pages (and stay awake).

When the Boys Ask "How Many More Days?"...

We count the links on our paper chain. Right after the CDR left, we spread out a big craft project on the dining room table. I used a small paper cutter to slice colored paper into strips, and the boys decorated them with crayons, markers, and stickers. Then my older son, Mo, helped me tape the links together. (Truth be told, he helped tape about 10 links, then got bored and went to play with his pirate ship. I did the rest after bedtime. Sigh.)

We hung our paper chain from the chandelier in the dining room, where we eat all of our meals. Each morning, one of the boys removes a link from the chain and we celebrate being another day closer to Daddy's return.

When Daddy Pulls Into Port...

The boys do NOT - I repeat, do NOT - talk to him on the phone. I know it sounds strange, and may not make sense, but trust me one this one: When my boys talk to their father on the phone, we take an emotional road trip right back to Deployment Day One. The hitting, the kicking, the crying, the screaming. I'm exhausted just thinking about it. About two weeks later, my 4-year-old finally breaks free from his emotional shackles. I take it upon myself to liberate his little shoulders from carrying that big old burden.

When We Feel Like Daddy's Missing Out on a Moment...

We set aside a "party favor" for him. If the boys are doing something memorable, we follow it up with an art project. The boys draw something about their special day, then I add each child's name and date, and set aside their pieces in a Daddy portfolio. When the CDR comes home, the boys can take Daddy through their portfolios, and the pictures will spark memories for them to share.

Okay, this last one we haven't done yet, but it's on my list:

When We Really Need a Daddy Hug...

We play Daddy Dress-Up! When I am particularly sad about my husband's absence, I pull on one of his old Coast Guard sweatshirts and snuggle into the lingering scent of aftershave. I wonder if the boys might like doing something similar? I bet they'd get a kick out of wearing one of Daddy's old button-down shirts and a tie.

You Know He's Deployed When...

... Your 4-year-old poops in his underwear, your 2-year-old has his first blow-out diaper in months, and your dog steps in his own poop and tracks it all over the house... all within twelve hours.

... You find yourself crooning loudly along with the local blues station, "I got a HOUSE full of TROUBLE, and a ROO-OOO-OOM with a view of the BLUESSSSSS."

... You put your non-profit fundraising skills to work and send your friends a "Six Ways You Can Help" email (no, I did not ask for money... but I did request in-kind donations).

... You end each night with a glass of red wine, a piece (or three) of dark chocolate, and a chapter (or three) of a good book, dishes and laundry be damned.

... You take the kids out to eat at Applebee's, Panera, McDonald's, Red Robin, Starbucks, and Panera (again) in the course of just seven days.

... You repeat the same conversation with your 2-year-old at least three times a day:

"Where'd Daddy go?"

"Daddy's on his ship."

"On his ship?"

"Yes, Daddy's on his ship."

"He's working?"

"Yes, Daddy's working on his ship."

"He's working on the ocean?"

"Yes, Daddy's working on his ship on the ocean."

"... Okay! You come play with me?"

"Yes, I'll come play with you."

... Your 4-year-old decides that hitting, kicking, and throwing toys are all perfectly appropriate behaviors.

... You remember all the amazing things about your spouse, and forget all the little things that make you frustrated.

... Your phone rings five times during dinner -- every call another recorder solicitation, not one a friend asking, "How are you doing? I'm thinking of you."

(Ooh, that one sounded especially pathetic... But I won't self-edit. I really did feel bummed about that.)

... You spend more time on Facebook... A LOT more time.

... You let the kids play in the bathtub for 20 more minutes than normal because you're not quite finished with this one chapter in the last "Harry Potter" book.

... You discover the true breadth and depth of your children's love when they find you crying on the kitchen floor, then wrap their arms around you and whisper, "Are you okay, Mama? We're right here. We love you."

... You drink more coffee... A LOT more coffee.

An Open Letter to My Starbucks Angel

Dear Angel,

I was having a rough day yesterday. My major year-end gift appeal was held up at every stage - from computer issues to printing issues to micro-editing boss issues, I was just plain exhausted. And, while I knew the end was in sight, I also knew there was a lengthy holiday line at the post office. So, I decided to grab an Espresso Truffle at my Starbucks drive-through to enjoy while I waited to buy stamps.

I was just about to turn into the drive-through line when you cut in front of me, turning in quickly from the opposite direction. I didn't particularly care, since technically you did have the right of way, but it did put me a few more minutes further from the finish line. Finally, it was your turn at the window.

That's when I started to get annoyed. It took you quite some time to pay, and it looked like you were hovering at the window, making merry conversation. "Hey, lady," I thought, "now is definitely not the time to be chatting up the barista. Get a move on!"

As I finally pulled up to the window, that barista handed over my Espresso Truffle with a big smile and said, "Happy Holidays from the lady in front of you! She felt horrible for cutting in front of you in line, so she bought your coffee. Enjoy!"

I quickly glanced around the parking lot to find you, and I laughed as I watched you drive past, window rolled down, yelling "I"m so sorry!" and waving apologetically.

Starbucks Angel, you made my day. Better still, you renewed my joy for this holiday season. I've felt burdened recently by the gift-giving part of Christmas. We're paring down this year, and I've worried about the reaction from family members when they give our kids three gifts each, and we only give their kids one gift each.

But yesterday, you reminded me that it's called gift-GIVING, not gift-RECEIVING, for good reason. I'm reminded of a quote I read recently from the Baghavad Gita, a sacred Hindu scripture:

"A gift is pure when it is given from the heart to the right person at the right time and at the right place, and when we expect nothing in return."

You lived this truth for me yesterday, and for that I thank you and offer my warmest wishes for a very merry Christmas.

Gratefully,

Christine

P.S. Readers, help me pay it forward this holiday season - next time you're at Starbucks, order one of their signature holiday drinks, and buy one for the customer behind you, too. Starbucks will donate 5 cents from every beverage sold to the Global Fund to help save lives in Africa. Learn more at www.starbucks.com.

 

Slightly Belated, or Unconscionably Tardy?

Oh, dear.

My last post was written October 14, 2008. It is now December 3, 2008.

That's 50 days ago, in case you were wondering. I was.

Oh, readers. I am so sorry. I don't know about you, but I vote for "unconscionably tardy." Please, oh please, won't you forgive me?

The past 50 days have been an Oprah-worthy range of emotion, alternating between glorious and infuriating, peaceful and stressful, joyous and sorrowful. You name it, we've felt it.

I cannot adequately reflect on every day between then and now (naptime isn't near long enough for that). But here are a few reflections I'm having right now, in this very moment, when I'm actually at the computer long enough to think about it.

Absence Really Does Make My Heart Grow Fonder

The CDR is gone on a three-day business trip, and I'm lovin' it! He was home for six weeks or so, just long enough to thoroughly enjoy his company and then find myself wondering, "When does he get underway again? Not until January?!? Oh, no. That won't do."

I am a total extrovert, I admit, but I do quite enjoy a few nights here and there of solitary peace. I put the boys to bed, clean a few dishes, then settle my entire body onto our tiny loveseat while I watch something girly on the TiVo and drink a glass of wine (or, as it happened last night, savor every last spoonful of my peppermint ice cream with homemade chocolate sauce).

Here's the thing: I love my husband, but I love him more (and I like him a lot more!) when I've had the chance to miss him.

I Actually Like (Some) Other Women

While I do have my high-maintenance moments, I confess that I find some women to be exceptionally catty and gossipy and judgy and ultimately, intolerable.

I also struggle with this one particular breed of stay-at-home-moms. God love and bless every single one of you, but seriously... Might you possibly, one distant day, even begin to consider that there exists a subject worthy of discussion that does not involve your children and their bodily functions?

Anyway. Here in Washington, I have found a savvy, grounded, thought-provoking, exceptionally delightful group of women in the mothers' group at my church. Some of them have become my closest friends here, and they helped carry me through the darkest moments of this year's deployments.

It Won't Really Be About Me Until 2012... or 2020... Or Never

When we were given this assignment in Seattle, I had to suspend a graduate school program I had just started in Vermont. It is a fantastic program, and that first year of school was one of the best experiences of my life. All of my classmates have gone on without me, and I may finish... someday.

I also love my work in arts administration; and, while I have been blessed to find a job here, it's essentially the same damn job I've had for seven years. Because I can't stay in a job longer than two years, I can't promote. And that is very frustrating.

If I'm honest with myself, I recognize that neither of my dreams will likely come to pass until the CDR officially retires from the Coast Guard. The original plan has that happening in 2012; but if the economy keeps tanking, then staying in a few more years may be a very wise decision.

But I still occasionally struggle with the personal surrender and sacrifice that comes with my husband's military career. Just the other day, our younger son Kel woke up with an all-body rash, and I was the one who had to miss work to take him to the doctor and stay home with him. My husband literally could not miss that day of work, even though I have missed day after day handling sick kids all by myself for seven months. And I started to get very bitter.

But, as it always seems with my emotional process, I came to a crossroads. And here's what I thought:

I can either be bitter and sour about my life's path, or I can find joy in the unexpected blessings that it brings, like:

...Two young sons who are already good friends...

...A husband who writes heart-melting love letters...

...A house that must be de-cluttered every 2-3 years before we move...

...An excuse to not fully paint and decorate said house because, "Hey, we're just gonna move in two years, and it's a rental, anyway!"...

...Good friends across the country and around the world...

...Sea Pay and Family Separation Allowance...

...A faith in God and myself that has walked through the dark valley and come out shining ever more brightly...

...And a blog.

Through the Rain

Friends, I have another confession to make: I love Barry Manilow.

No, that's not exactly true. I don't love Barry Manilow. I LOVE BARRY MANILOW. As in, my heart melts into an ooey-gooey puddle on the floor when a familiar song plays on the radio.

As in, I've been able to sing most every Manilow tune by heart since I was in the single digits.

As in, I am a true-blue, dyed-in-the-wool Fanilow. And I am not ashamed.

(Okay, maybe I am a teensy bit embarrassed to reveal this little-known passion. But I digress.)

Last night, the boys and I enjoyed a celebratory, "Only-48-Hours-'til-Daddy's-Home" dinner at Applebee's. When we walked into the restaurant, it was a lovely clear night in Seattle.

When we walked out of the restaurant, it was a veritable monsoon worthy of the South Pacific. We were only halfway through the parking lot by the time we were drenched from head to toe in cold, soak-right-through-your-jeans rain.

That's when they hit me... the lyrics to a favorite Manilow ditty:

I made it through the rain,
I kept my world protected.
I made it through the rain,
I kept my point of view.
I made it through the rain,
And found myself respected,
By the others who
Got rained on, too,
And made it through.

Of course, we made it through the rain to our car. Then we made it home, where we gratefully changed into warm and cozy pajamas and curled up together in my room to watch a family TV program before bedtime.

And today, with less than 24 hours to go before the CDR's return to the pier, I think I can safely say that we made it through seven months of deployment.

We made it through the rain.

That legendary songwriter, my beloved Barry, was right on the money when he said he "found [him]self respected by the others who got rained on, too." This year, I have been the eternally grateful benefeciary of endless emails, numerous phone calls, and several care packages from friends all over the country.

Every one of you helped me to make it through the rain, because you've been soaked a time or two before yourself. And you know how good it feels when someone reaches their hand across the miles or the grocery store aisle and says, "Here, let me help."

Thank you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The (Little) Man in My Life

When Mo was born, he came into the world with the same head of hair as his daddy - that is to say, he was completely bald.

And he didn't really start growing hair until he turned two years old. We even joked about costuming the CDR as Dr. Evil and Mo as Mini-Me for Halloween. My husband and son were identical, but for the fact that one was 34 years younger and several pant sizes smaller.

Fast forward three years. I'm walking into church this morning with Mo holding my left hand, and my younger son Kel holding my right. As we approach the steps, I can practically feel my husband's presence, as though he were walking right there beside me.

Then I realize that my memory has a definitive flash-point. As he nervously clutches my hand in that crowded room, Mo is fiddling with my wedding ring in exactly the same manner that his father does when he reaches for my left hand.

This has happened before. Mo recently became afraid of the dark, and he is convinced that the "bad guys" are going to come into our house at night and hurt us.

Thank you ever so much, parents of the other preschooler at daycare who let their child see The Dark Night in the movie theatre and whose child has now taught my son all about how bad guys beat the good guys into a bloody pulp. I'm not one to judge other parental methodologies, but seriously. Are you nuts?

Anyway, back to my story. Because Mo is so frightened at night, he often asks me to snuggle in bed with him before he falls asleep. Judge me if you like, but I often indulge this desperate request. As I climb into his twin bed and lay beside him, Mo always flips onto his back and stretches his arm across the pillow so that I can rest in the crook of his little shoulder, then strokes my hair as he whispers himself into peaceful sleep...

This is exactly the way that his father snuggles me in the sweet, soft darkness of our bedroom at night.

It may sound a little creepy, I know. But I actually find it inspiring. My good friend Nell once told me that she was proud to have little boys, if only so she could raise them to become smart, strong, and loving men like her amazing husband. The world needs more men like him, she said.

I totally agree. The world needs more men like my husband, too. And if these instinctive - and apparently genetic - habits of Mo's are any indication, I suspect I'm on the right track in raising my son to be just like his daddy.

What Gets Me Through

I'm the first to admit that this tour has not brought out the best in me. I've been pessimistic, depressed, cranky, angry, abusive, rude, lazy, and insensitive... sometimes all at once!

But there have been a few bright sides to deployment. One of my favorites is the way that long separations have encouraged my husband and I to write each other love letters. (Okay, really they're love emails, but still. Work with me here.)

Take, for example, this excerpt from a message I received from my husband just moments ago:

"...Know that I love you.  Deep, abiding love.  Love that makes me warm when I think of you.  Love that brightens even the darkest moments of my life.  Love that keeps me going through long separations.  Love that gives meaning to the work that I do.  Love that makes me a better person.

Your adoring husband"

All together now... Awwww.

Now, these aren't the kind of sentiments that we casually toss across the dinner table. But since we have not seen each other for days, weeks, months, a whole season and then some, the CDR and I have realized the true depth and breadth of our love. And I'm not sure we would have made such a discovery while chatting about our day during supper.

Maybe deployment isn't so bad after all.

 

I Hate You, Cancer

I hate you, cancer.

And coming from me, that's really saying something. After all, I am the girl who says, "I don't really care for olives on my pizza."

And I am the mother who says, "Mo, you don't really hate your brother. You simply dislike the way he bashed you in the head with a dinosaur, and wish he would refrain from throwing prehistoric creatures."

But you, cancer? You, I hate.

I hate you with an intensity that courses through my body like an electrical shock. I hate you with an anger that brings fire to my eyes. I hate you with a loathing that spits your name from my mouth with disdain.

I hate the way you killed my role model Auntie Corrie and my beloved grandmother Barbara. I hate the way you attacked my friend Lisa not once, but twice, with your vicious disregard. I hate the way you turned my friend Karen's world upside down and limited her selfless life of service. I hate the way you left my husband frightened and powerless when his mother told him that she has breast cancer, and that his father may have prostate cancer.

But you know what, cancer? I'm after you.

I am going to do everything in my power to eradicate you before I leave this earth. And I'm going to ask my friends and family members to join me in this battle.

Every time a friend asks me for a donation when they walk or run or compete in a triathlon for a cancer organization, I'm going to say yes.

For every friend or family member that is diagnosed with cancer, I am going to pray without ceasing, and do whatever I can to support them during treatment.

And tonight, I'm going to sit down and watch Stand Up to Cancer. Then I'm going to make a donation to the scientists who are, right this very moment, searching for a way to destroy you.

Get ready, cancer. The fight is on.

The Money Tree

Your regular, run-of-the-mill money may not grow on trees, but I apparently believe that sea pay is always ripe for the pickin'.

In the last three months, both our family iPod and the last handset in our home phone system bit the dust. So, I visited the Coast Guard Exchange website and placed an order for a brand-new iPod and a phone system that actually speaks aloud the caller ID, saving me that precious ten-foot, one-minute trip from the dining room table to answer yet another dinnertime-phone-solicitor. Total cost? $400.

Sea Pay.

In one recent week, my family took four restaurant road trips to McDonald's, Panera, Applebee's, and Panera (again). Total number of trips to the grocery store? One.

Sea Pay.

Last Monday, I bought Mo a new pair of shoes. The sneaky Stride Rite sales lady measured Mo's feet, then immediately showed Mo - not me - their fancy-schmancy Super Ball sneaker (the most expensive gym shoe on the shelf, natch). Instead of suffering the pre-lunch preschooler mall-tantrum, I bought my son the stupid Super Ball shoes and cringed as I signed the receipt.

Sea Pay.

I recently lamented this weakness to my husband in a particularly guilt-laden email. His response? "You have nothing to feel guilty about. Do what you need to do to survive and more importantly, be happy. Anyway, that's what family separation allowance is for."

FSA? I completely forgot about FSA! I don't have a money tree, I've got a money orchard! Wahoo! I'm going shopping.

We Have Signed a Cease-Fire

Ten days ago, Mo and I declared all-out war on each other. He kicked, he screamed, he punched, he trampled his little brother, he even tore my shirt so hard that he ripped the collar seam. I retaliated by spanking him in anger; then I retreated to the kitchen and threw mixing-bowl grenades that dented both my oven and the bowls.

That's when I knew: If we didn't declare a cease-fire, right then and there, we were going to start hauling out the nuclear weapons. Since we live in a rental house, that was definitely not an option.

So, I called in a third-party mediator to help resolve our dispute. My friends J&L welcomed Mo into their home for an impromptu sleepover, then took him camping for a week in eastern Washington while I cooled down, found some perspective, and started a much-needed round of Zoloft.

Mo returned from camping as a happy, dirty preschooler (and proud owner of a garter snake he caught and named "Sunlight.") I welcome him back as a calm, joyful mother (who refused to allow Sunlight into her home, yard, or neighborhood).

Thanks to our cease-fire - and the Olympics - Mo and I have, for the most part, maintained our cease-fire and upheld peace in our little nation. Condoleeza would be proud.