PCS Is Not Spelled F-U-N

No, in my world, PCS is spelled H-E-L-L.

Last month, the CDR was assigned to an icebreaker out of Seattle, Wash. (see blog title) and our family began the dreaded PCS process once more. The last time we undertook such an adventure, it was just the CDR and me, an optimistic, newlywed couple.

This time, it was the now sleep-deprived, barely-patient couple, their rambunctious two-year-old toddler, practically newborn 5-month-old, and an energetic 3-year-old Vizsla named Clive.

Of course, the process began as most military moves do: We finally, totally moved into our home. Yes, we organized all of our junk into containers as we had always intended. We painted the walls of our nursery, hallway, and dining room. We hung framed prints that had gathered a three-year-old dust covering as they lay angled against the wall they were supposed to adorn. We donated old furniture to charity, swept our basement floor, and finally finished those random home renovation projects that we started before we transitioned from couple to family.

In the current real estate market, we were blessed, for we sold our house at the listing price in just 10 days (to those still struggling, my deepest apologies). The real challenge for us came in finding a new home in Seattle. The BAH and COLA, in my opinion, are completely insufficient for the Seattle market, and that made buying a home impossible for us. So, instead of driving out on a leisurely, family road trip, I flew cross-country with my little boys, Mo and Kel, and my fantastically giving mother, whom we affectionately call GrandmaNana, to find us a new house.

Because our flight left Rhode Island at an impossibly early hour, we checked into an airport hotel the night before. At 3 a.m., we were rudely awakened by a sound I hope you never hear while traveling with small children: the fire alarm.

I groggily and frantically made my way toward my slumbering infant. As I reached down to grab Kel, I slammed my forehead into the corner of the desk and gave myself a lovely goose egg above the right eye. Now wincing in pain and a little faint, I calmly explained to my older son, Mo, that we needed to put on shoes and walk outside for a few minutes so the firefighters could make sure our hotel was safe. The word "firefighters" brought my rescue-vehicle-obsessed toddler immediately to life, and what was my major inconvenience became Mo's major adventure.

Half an hour later, we were allowed back into our hotel room. (The alarm was triggered by someone smoking in a non-smoking room. If only I knew who it was...) Mo was too excited to sleep, and so talked to his barely conscious mama about pumpers and ladder trucks and ambie-ances until he finally drifted back into sleep. Two hours later, we were waking up to throw our stuff back into suitcases and make our way to the first leg of our long flight.

The first few hours of our flight were relatively uneventful. I pulled out all the toddler stops to entertain Mo: the books, the new toys, the portable DVD player sporting a fine selection of The Wiggles, Thomas the Tank Engine, and Curious George programming. But as toddlers do, Mo quickly lost interest in my bag-o-entertainment, and in his exhaustion quickly disintegrated into the two-year-old from Hades.

And thus we arrive at the low point of our airplane adventure. At about hour four, I was breastfeeding Kel while repeatedly telling Mo to stop yelling because it is rude, then unsuccessfully deflecting his little mouth from biting me (hard!) on the arm that was occupied by the blissfully ignorant Kel. I had the bite marks for days afterward and, I am slightly ashamed to admit, Mo received his first spanking in the airport terminal bathroom as he tried to bite me for the gazillionth time that day. I was tired, too.

Once in Seattle, I looked and looked for a rental house, to no avail. The CDR and Clive arrived just four days later after a speedy cross-country trip in our Subaru Outback, Clifford the Big Blue Car. After dozens of phone calls and rental house visits, we finally found a house that fit most of our criteria, and most importantly our BAH.

Unfortunately, we signed the lease on a Thursday afternoon. Our belongings had to go into storage earlier that morning, and we learned that we couldn't get our stuff back for at least a week.

So, our now-reunited family hung out at the home of my sister-in-law's friends, K&E, for eight days, doing little projects at our new rental house to prepare for our household goods delivery. Delivery day finally arrived, and we joyfully snacked on muffins and strawberries while we watched our movers unload our precious things into the freshly-painted house. I took the boys back to K&E's house for naptime and came back three hours later expecting to see the movers hard at work assembling furniture and unpacking boxes. Instead, I watched them climb into their truck and drive away. As I got out of the car and threw a questioning glance at the CDR, my mother-in-law quickly walked toward me and said, "You really don't want to know what is happening."

Though I would have preferred ignorant bliss, I inevitably learned that the movers had lost our Parts Box. For those who don't know, the Parts Box contains every piece of hardware necessary to reconstruct any disassembled furniture. The beds, the dining room table, the crib, the piano... All these fell victim to the missing Parts Box. The best (worst) part? It was Friday afternoon, and the movers weren't coming back until Monday morning.

So, on Friday night we found ourselves begging our new friends K&E to allow us another night in their home. In their abounding hospitality, they said yes and we loaded our bags back into Clifford for another night in transition. Bright and early on Saturday morning, my husband confronted the city of boxes in our garage, determined to find the missing Box... And praise the baby Jesus, he did! The CDR and his dad spent most of Saturday assembling the necessary furniture, and we finally spent the night in our new home.

But our misadventure was not over. As promised, the moving crew reappeared on Monday morning ready to assemble and unpack. Now, in every move one must realize that something will go missing and something will get broken. The lucky ones end up with a broken knick-knack that Great-Aunt Gertrude bought at the dollar store for a wedding gift, or they lose a key piece to the Barney puzzle that their child received at a birthday party and, oh, what a shame, it must be recycled.

Apparently our movers live by the "go big or go home" philosophy, because they broke the most expensive piece of furniture that we own: our baby grand piano.

The piano repair tech is scheduled to come next week to diagnose our poor baby's condition and determine if she is fixable or dump-worthy. If her damage is found to be incurable, we will very sadly call someone to take her away and probably hold a memorial picnic where she used to stand. We will also very sadly accept a less-than-sufficient damages check from the moving company, which I guarantee will not cover the replacement cost.

All that said, I realize that this version of hell, while wittily written, is nothing compared to the greater struggles of life. A dear friend recently lost his brother just days after he gained a newborn daughter. A young woman whom I deeply admire is fighting the battle royale against breast cancer. So what if I have a few bite marks from an exhausted and stressed toddler, the memory of several days of boredom and fast-food-meals, and a few thousand dollars of broken property?

I have my beloved husband. I have two of the most beautiful children I've ever seen. I have in-laws that live just a five-hour drive away... and they're retired! I have friends, far and near, who support me with their love, laughter, and prayer. And I have you, my fellow military spouses, to join me in this new adventure.

So, here we go. The CDR has been underway for several days already (he left 36 hours after the movers delivered our goods), and I'm learning by the minute how to be a stay-at-home parent, a military spouse to a deployed officer, and a person who finds joy in the journey of self-discovery. Come with me, won't you? You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll probably get mad as you encounter the ironic crossroads of my liberal, intellectual, faithful personality. But it's my desire that you'll also find your own truth in my words, and share your sentiments in the comments section. Let's support one another, and our spouses, in this unique life we lead.

Sure, PCS may be spelled H-E-L-L. But it's my wish that this blog will spell H-O-P-E for you and me.

Comments

[Jill]

You hit it on the head - one can most definitely spell PCS h-e-l-l. We'll be in your shoes in two years - having grown from two to four in the four years we'll have been here in CT.

So happy you found a home that you like and that things are going smoothly. So sorry to hear about your baby grand. Of all the things to find broken.

While CDR is away, I wish you the patience you'll need and extra hours in your day to recoup to find "you time." We're always a phone call or email away!

[nova]

Love it C! I hope things are sunnier today!

[Lori]

JM leaves for what is supposed to be a 5 week deployment (I'm expecting it to be longer, since nothing has stayed on schedule so far with this boat) on Thursday, leaving me at home with our 2 year old, and our three week old. I feel your pain...

I was about to say at least I don't have unpacking to do, but I am still not through our boxes from the last PCS, and our next one is less than a year away!

Loved the blog...we might be able to remember how "laugh" is spelled! I plan to check often to see how you are faring!

[Anna]

Oy, what a trip! I feel for you!
But so glad you are out there in the blogosphere, you don't feel quite so far away. Love your blog, and can't wait to see it grow!

And hey--any chance of a glossary for us civilian types?! :)

[Erika]

Nicely done, Christine! And I cringed at the thought of that bite mark...ouch! Been there and it's no fun! Love the blog and can't wait to hear more tales of Mo and Kel and their very brave, strong Mom!