I’m a MAN dagnabit!! Really…I am. Please?

The other day I experienced a bit of military male spouse angst.  There are times when you come face to face with the fact that your wife will being doing things that are traditionally in the realm of “manly” while you are going about your domestic duties at home.

This was made starkly clear to me as my wife, daughter and I were doing our usually morning Skype session.  I had the computer on the kitchen table so we could video chat while I was feeding my daughter breakfast.  At some point during our session a colleague of my wife’s came back to ask her a question. Since my wife wears a headset I never hear what the question is. Normally I hear her spout some medical terms and give some instructions as a response to said question. 

It was at this time that my daughter started to play with her food.  Turning my attention to my daughter I told her “Noooo…you need to put the nana (banana) in your mouth. Uh huh. Good girl! Yay!”  At the same exact time my wife responded to her colleague “Yup, you cock that back. Flip that switch to unlock the safety.”

She was talking about guns. 

I was talking to my daughter about “nanas”.

Right now I have a strong urge to go and kill some fuzzy little animals, eat raw meat,  and take a bath in motor oil. 

Pack Daddy

As I wrote in my last post my daughter and I took a little trip to visit my parents up in the Washington D.C. metro area last week.  We had a great time up there.  My daughter loved all the attention and the fact that she got to play with her grandparents all day long.  I was enjoying the break as my mom, as many mothers are prone to do, did not let me do anything.  No cooking, no cleaning, I wasn’t even able to change a diaper.  It was nice.

That being said, the actual trip, on the other hand, was a little tougher.  I knew traveling with an 18-month old, a fairly hyperactive 18-month old, was going to be a challenge.  I had visions of her screaming her lungs off for the entire 2 hour flight. Disturbing images of altercations with other passengers over my daughters refusal to settle down flooded my mind.  Fortunately, that wasn’t the case.  It turns out that the most exhausting aspect of flying with a toddler, as a single parent (temporary!) is actually getting through the airport.  Apparently kids need a lot of stuff.

Occasionally I have to travel for work and I usually pride myself in being a pretty light traveler. For a weeks trip I usually just have my carry-on roller suitcase (usually just half-full) and my computer bag (usually completely full, as my wife will attest).  This time, it was different.  It’s amazing how much extra stuff you need to pack when bringing along a person that weighs 1/10th of what you weigh (yes…I weigh about 10xs my daughters weight :-|)

This time my suitcase was completely full but half of the clothes packed was my daughters.  How can she use up half my suitcase?  She’s like 2 feet tall!  But that was just the clothes.  In addition to clothing I had to make sure I had a supply diapers for the flight, snacks, toys, books, changing pad, wipes, Sippy cups, bibs, rubber table mat, and various other baby paraphernalia.  All of this had to fit in a back-pack that was also holding my computer, DSLR Camera, digital video camera (like a Flip Video type), PSP (trust me…this was necessary), and various Daddy paraphernalia.  Add to that a stroller and a car seat.   So imagine if you will a man with a monster backpack, pushing a stroller, pulling a roller suitcase, and somehow bringing along a car seat.  I was doing my best Sherpa impersonation.

I actually had a pretty good system going. Baby was happy in the umbrella stroller I was pushing, back-pack on my back, and the car seat was strapped to the suitcase.  BTW, I LOVE my Swiss army backpack with all of its pockets, nooks, crannies, and compartments.  So I was pretty proud of myself for figuring out this system and actually cruising through the airport.  Then I got to security.

#*&%^#!!!!!

So, baby comes out of the stroller, off with her coat, off with her shoes, off with my coat, off with my shoes, computer comes out of the backpack, coats in trough in one bin, computer in another bin, stroller gets folded and goes through the x-ray machine, car seat gets unstrapped and through the x-ray machine, baby goes through the x-ray…err…scratch that last one.  At least I was smart enough to check my suitcase.  But what a PAIN IN THE BUTT!!

We get through security, put everything back on and back together, and it’s on our way again. Sherpa time!  So we get to the gate. That’s when I realize that the flight is going to be on one of these teeny, tiny commuter jets.  Which means we actually board the plane on the tarmac and not through a jet way. Which means we have to go down stairs and the climb up some more stairs to the jet.

#*&%^#!!!!!

Somehow or another we negotiate this last set of obstacles, get to our seats, strap the car seat in and get settled for our flight.  The flight itself was pretty uneventful and even got complemented on how well behaved my daughter was.  My secret?  My PSP with the movie “The Incredibles” loaded on it kept her hypnotic….err occupied for the entire trip.  I was able to relax and remember remarking “I never want to do that again!”

Then I remembered that we had to come home in a week.

#*&%^#!!!!

We’ll be Right Back!

This is a long overdue update.

I’ve been getting concerned inquiries here and there from various people due to my lack of updates to this blog.  Well, to those people I first want to thank-you for your concern and I also want to assure that yes I and my daughter are doing well.  The house is still standing, the piles have been contained, my daughter is still healthy (and alive!) and I still have my hair (though with a little more gray maybe).

The truth of the matter is that things have been going well enough that it’s become a bit boring.  Don’t get me wrong! I’ll take this boredom and routine over the “excitement” of the initial month of this deployment any day of the week.  I happen to like the fact that my days are more predictable.  The downside to all this is that there’s much less to write about.  I mean just how many posts about the digestive system of my daughter to you really want to read about (only parents will understand that sometimes your life revolves around the digestive system of your kid.)?

That being said, stay tuned.  My daughter and I have just made a trip.  We’re in the state of Maryland right now visiting my parents.  Yup, that means we just travelled and yup, that means I took a toddler with all her accessories on a plane trip with me.  Fun times! But that’s for the next post.

Putting up with crap…

Fair warning.  This post is not for those easily grossed out by bodily functions.

So much for wishing for a better February.  That sure didn’t last long.  I should’ve known that something was up when the first e-mail I get from work is from an irate attorney.  Basically he didn’t appreciate the fact that I was doing my job and telling his client that they couldn’t do what they wanted and couldn’t say what they wanted to say.  It didn’t matter that their very own  prospectus/documents said that they couldn’t do what they wanted to either.  So not only was I protecting my firm from their sales staff (why can’t they just play by the rules?) but I was protecting their firm as well.  But, other than the arguing with another firm’s outside counsel (which ended up taking my entire day) it wasn’t a too terrible start to the month.

Yet.

So after work it was off to pick-up my daughter from daycare.  Upon picking my daughter up and speaking with our provider the topic of conversation always turns to my daughter’s bowel movements.  Bowl movements are a big deal and a big topic of conversation for us.  Did she go today? Hard or soft? Diarrhea? Color? Texture?  All this detail is important to us for some reason.  Well, actually the reason is that a few months ago my daughter was constipated and we believe it was due to the switch from formula to milk that caused it.  Since then we had been giving her soy milk to drink instead and have given her a supplement of Mira lax to help soften things up.  It seemed to work.  Well enough that we were slowly decreasing her dosage of Mira lax.  I decided to cut out the ‘lax even more when our care provider gave a report of a really, really watery diaper (and no…not #1) after not giving my daughter any Mira lax for awhile and then giving her one dosage.  I guess she didn’t need the ‘lax anymore.

So it’s at this point I get the bright idea (yup…another bright idea) that if my daughter is handling things well enough again that I could switch her to whole milk instead of soy milk.  So I did.  The first few days I didn’t really notice too much difference other than her stools were more formed but it wasn’t causing her any pain.  So, just in case I gave her a dose of Mira lax this morning with her milk before taking her to daycare.

Upon picking her up my daycare provider reported, “Oh she went today.”  Yes! It’s working! I think I’ve found the balance.  Not too hard, not too soft.  “Oh, and she was really gassy today too. Whoo!”  Eh?  Gassy you say?  Must be the milk.  Or if my wife were here would say that it runs in the family (while pointedly looking straight at me).  What?

Anyways, that should’ve been a clue as to what was to come.  Apparently my daughter had been poot ‘a tootin’ up a storm at day care.  Flash forward to dinner and I’m watching my daughter alternatively feeding herself and the floor fish and broccoli.  All of a sudden she gets really wide eyed and I hear pbbbbbuuuuurrrrrrrrr!!!!  At this point it’s still pretty funny as I imagined it to be one big and long fart.  Really funny as it’s coming from someone as little as her.  I mean, this was, well…like Blazing Saddles.

The thing is, like in the video above, the hits just kept on coming.  She was basically reenacting that entire scene. By herself.  Uh oh.

At this point it ceased to be so funny because this is the point when I realized she wasn’t just tooting.  The teary eyed, clenched fists, and straining face clued me in to that. 

Oh no.

But I thought she went already today!? How can she have more.  This isn’t fair! You’re only supposed to go once a day! It was the day care providers turn! Arghh. So there she is, sitting in her high chair and she’s just going.  I can’t stop her and I sure as heck am not going to pick her up until she’s done.  I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that there will be quite the mess to clean up later.  There’s no way that diaper is holding all of that.  When you’re in your highchair eating fish and you hear something splish…

Houston we have a problem.  Looks like we’ve sprung a small leak.  Crap. 

Mercifully she finishes so I pick her up and it’s straight to the bathroom.  She’s not really happy with stuff leaking down her leg and I’m not happy either.  Amazingly when we get to the bathroom she let’s out an excited squeal.  She’s going to take a bath! She’s excited.  Me, I don’t quite share excitement just yet.  I strip her clothes off, wipe down her legs, open her diaper… Ew.  I’ll spare you the details.  Into the bath she goes.  At this point I have a bit of time to survey the collateral damage.  Her pants, done for.  In the wash.  Diaper, in a plastic bag, into the trash.  Thank goodness tomorrow is trash day! Bathroom really stinks.  Light a candle but why do I still smell something…oh…Ew.  So the scene is now baby splashing away in the bath (rather happily) spraying water everywhere and dad not caring because he’s running around now just in his boxers trying to clean and disinfect the bathroom.

She got soy milk tonight before bed.

One Down

Well, we’ve made through our first month of deployment.  My wife is doing well, my daughter is still alive, and I am still sane (or at least not more insane than before).  Like the saying about flying, "Any landing you can walk away from is a successful one.”  So despite some of the bumps along the way I am pleased that one month has passed.  Just one month less for my wife to be away.

That being said I’ve gotta say that January of 2010 is a month I’d like to never repeat again.  It was simultaneously the longest month and the quickest month I’ve ever experienced.  Long due to the separation, quick because it’s just been so jammed packed with “stuff.” We experienced our first family separation and the pains that accompany it.  My daughter’s first trip to the ER.  The traumatization of my daughter by the bathtub of death.  The adjustment into single parenthood.  The semi-isolation that comes with being a male spouse of a deployed female service member (ain’t no husbands clubs).  All in all, we’ve been able to make the adjustments and have finally settled into a more manageable routine.  A big thank-you to my parents for showing up for a week to give me a break.  I’m just glad that the “initiation” is finally done.  Let’s just get through this already. One month down, five to go.  Here’s hoping to a better February.

The Bachelor Creep

Piles.

If there was one word I could use to describe my perception of the life of the bachelor, it would have to be “piles.”  Most of the bachelors I have known in my life, whether past or present, have operated the “pile” method of organization in one form or another.  Myself included.  These could be piles of anything: clothes, papers, dishes, food, you name it, there was probably a pile for it somewhere or another in that bachelor’s pad.  Ladies, don’t let the clean and tidy apartment/home fool you.  Remember, before you are tra….er…married he is still trying to impress you.  Men already know that most women are cleaner than they are and that a dirty apartment is a major turn off.  The beauty of the pile system is that piles are portable.  You just pick-up the pile and move it to a place that can’t be seen. Or you just throw it out.

The beauty of the “pile method” of organization can not be overstated.  While it looks like a complete mess, the user of the pile method is usually able to find what he is looking for 87.7% of the time and usually rather quickly too.  That’s because the pile method, while it looks like a haphazard throwing together of random items, is actually pretty complex.  Done right, piles are usually not a tossing together of random items.  Generally they are organized by themes.  Themes like clothing, food, important papers, not so important papers, papers to throw away but I’ll get to it later, etc.  The advanced user of the pile method will also incorporate the geographical location of each pile to help with his sorting as well.  Pile of clothes by the bed? Wear later.  Pile of clothes next to the washing machine?  Sort.  Pile of clothes on top of the washing machine? WASH NOW!  What? Why wouldn’t you immediately wash the clothes next to the washing machine too?  Well, because you usually also implement the other pile method technique that bachelors will refer to as the “smell test.”  The smell test is used to help bachelors in determining whether or not a particular item of clothing can be re-worn again, or if a food item is still edible or not.  This technique, however, is not to be used on it own.  It MUST be used in collaboration with the thematic piling and geographic sorting.  The danger of the smell technique is when said bachelor never leaves his home and becomes accustomed to all the smells.  Very dangerous.

Anyways, why am I writing about the bachelor lifestyle?  Well, as you might have guessed, with my wife now being deployed it seems as if the bachelor is slowly trying to creep back.  Quick word here, my wife will probably not enjoy this post as much so appreciate the fact that I take much risk to bring this to you.  So yeah, it seems as though the bachelor is trying to make a come back now that my wife is gone.  The first sign of this is the piles.  Yes… piles…not pile.  It started out small at first.  On my side of the bed there is a perennial pile of clothing.  It’s always been a small pile and one of the few things that really chaps my wife’s behind when she sees it.  I know it has really gotten on her nerves when I come into the bedroom at night and see that the pile has been moved from the floor and onto the bed.  I’m not foolish enough to attempt to move said pile back onto the floor again because I’m tired.  Oh no.  My wife doesn’t even have to say a word.  That pile on the bed means, you’re not getting into this bed until you put your clothes away buddy.  As with the clothes, my wife has generally been the control over all my little piles.  Hey, it’s kind of hard to overcome 30 years of bachelor conditioning.  Ok…31.   So now that my wife is in Iraq, that control is gone and I found myself faced with piles again.  That pile by my bed had somehow grown and creeped its way around the bedroom.  Most of it was clean!  I just hadn’t gotten around to folding the laundry yet.  There was a pile of dishes in the sink, a pile of documents on my desk, and a pile of toys in the living room.  Not good.  At least, for the most part, I had contained my piles to the areas that I frequented and kept my daughter out of.  Not that it made okay.  Alright Honey, you can unfold your arms and un-purse your lips now.  I took care of the piles and “no” not in the way a bachelor would .  I really took care of them.

The thing I realized is that I stopped being a bachelor about 4 years ago and now that I have a daughter I REALLY can’t go back.  The problem is that the bachelor lifestyle is just really easy and at times can be really appealing.  It’s like those TV shows where you have a little devil on one shoulder and a little angel on the other arguing over your decisions.  In my case I’ve got a little bachelor on one shoulder and a responsible family man on the other.  Responsible family man is usually backed up by my wife but now that his back-up is temporarily gone he’s on his own for awhile.  So honey, if you come back and see a little pile of clothes (LITTLE) by the bed, or chrome and black pleather couches where our furniture used to be, or an extra gadget or 50, just remember that the responsible family man put up the best fight he could.  He really did! Really.  What?

YEAH BABY! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ bout!

A Martian Decides to Attack Venus

In this installment of the Air Force Husband’s Handbook (now to be known as AFHH because the military LOVES acronyms) we bring you the woeful, though not entirely fictitious tale of a lone Martian that, contrary to good judgment, thought it would be a good idea to attack Venus.   Obviously judging by that intro, you could surmise that it was a  failed undertaking as the Martian was beat back by the Venusians into a hasty retreat.

                                                    Don’t Mess With Venus.

Okay… so maybe attack is too strong a word for the Martian’s actions and “beat back” mischaracterizes the behavior of the Venusians.  Actually, the Martian really only had good intentions to begin with.  He didn’t really want to attack Venus.  All he wanted to do is to take his cute little daughter to the playground on base.  How was he to know that the playground was the territory of the Venusians and their brood?

So, as you’ve probably figured out by now, I am that Martian and the “Venusians” are actually other military spouses.

That are fulltime homemakers.

And aren’t male.

We had just gotten done with our follow-up doctor’s appointment from last weeks “incident” (which went really well by the way) and were able to confirm no broken bones and prognosis for full recovery. Despite the screaming of baby obscenities at the x-ray machine, I felt that I should reward my daughter for being such a trooper through all this father inflicted grief.  I had taken some time off of work for the appointment and pretty much had the rest of a  nice and sunny day to spend time with her.  First it was off to the BX for some ice cream and then to the playground afterwards.

We made our way over to Baskin Robbins in the food court, made our selection, and sat down to enjoy our cup of Mango Mania ice cream together (is mania a flavor?).  It was at this point that I felt what seemed like some sharp stares on my back that caused me to look around.  I scanned back towards the direction I felt the stares from and found myself looking at an older couple.  The man was obviously retired military but had an oddly dumbfounded look on his face.  Noticing the expression on his face I reached behind me to make sure that my third arm was still tucked behind my head. Confirming, it was hidden from view, I tried to figure out what he was looking at (I’m joking).  It’s like he’s never seen a guy with his daughter, having ice cream together in the middle of the day (on a work day!), with no mom to be seen, and a big red back-pack stuffed with diapers, wipes, and Ms. Pinky the doll. Then I noticed his wife. She wasn’t dumb founded. Oh no.  She was in fact giving me the “look.”  It’s kind of hard to describe but it was like a look of disapproval and confusion all rolled up into one. Whatever I was, I was different and she didn’t like it.  The Modern Man. Humph!  What I didn’t realize was that I had just made first contact with the advanced guard of the Venusians and that this was just a taste of things to come. Oh well.  Whatever. I’m having ice-cream in the middle of the day with my daughter and not at work. Yay! 

It was still nice and sunny outside and after we finished our ice cream, it was time to let my daughter to run around and play a bit, so we made our way to the playground on base.  You would have thought that I would have learned by now that this playground is not any normal playground. What, with the freaky, freezing pavlovian kids and all.  Nope. Didn’t learn a thing.  I’m stubborn like that.  So we get to the playground and my daughter is making all kinds excited squeals and noises that only dogs should be able to hear.  She’s definitely looking forward to this. So I set her down to run off to play with the other kids.

I’d never actually been to the playground before during the work week and in the middle of the day to boot.  It’s really different.  Instead of screaming, rabid kids and their families playing there you have screaming, rabid kids and their Venusians…I mean mothers, playing there.  They were there with their kids, alternately wiping noses, filling their broods open orifices with snacks, yelling “No!" between “Stop thats!” and gabbing away at each other. 

They kind of looked alike too with their nifty sneakers, baggy sweatshirts, SUV like strollers, and an overall soccer mom-ish feel to them.  They were all just having a grand time.  A grand time that is, until they saw me.  Apparently my backpack of kiddie supplies was not enough camouflage for me to completely fit in. I even had snacks and sippy cups like they did!

Suddenly the chatter dropped to a murmur, kids were held close, some panicked and ran away hysterically.  Okay, I exaggerated a little there but the overall feeling was that they didn’t quite know what to make of me.  What is this? A man? Here? In our world? You’d think I’d stumbled on some secret organizations meeting or something.  Or had I?  Hmmm… I was, at this point, waiting for the torches and pitchforks to materialize from their overstuffed diaper bags. In reality some were able to offer a half hearted smile and greeting here or there but for the most part it seemed that they resorted to using their native Venusian language whenever I was nearby.

Telepathy. 

It reminded me of a similar episode when we first moved to this base.  For some reason I had gotten the bright idea that I should attend the “Spouse’s Orientation” so I could learn about the base and what it offers. We already know what my track record with “bright ideas” is.  Despite that,  I even called ahead to the program director to specifically tell her that, yes, I am a spouse and yes, I am a male.  Would it be appropriate for me to attend? “Oh, yes, yes. Of course! We’ve had a male spouse come through our program before!”  Notice the singular “a male spouse” there.  Hearing that reassurance, I figured that surely the military was a progressive entity now and recognized the existence of us male spouses and our needs.  So against my better judgment I decided to sign-up to participate.  That was a mistake.  Not only that but now I’ve given the program director the ability to say “Oh, yes we’ve had male spouses come before,” to the next sucker of a male spouse that dares consider attending.  Sorry dude. My bad.

So I show up to this thing and the “place setting” at my table has lots of gifts for us spouses.  Potpourri, soaps, pretty, flowery tins, etc.  You know, all the stuff a man could ever want.  This was an ominous beginning.  Then there were the other spouses.  I looked up and around and, yup, all women, and yup they all looked like I had just read their diaries and published their deepest secret on the internet. Lots of looking away, lots of awkward fidgety-ness.  Oh no! A man is here! What is he doing here? Doesn’t he know this is for spouses only?  Uhmm… so I’m a spouse too? I think?  I have a feeling that much telepathy was transmitted that day. On top of that there was the “Protocol Officer” as one of the speakers who was there to teach us about the ins and outs of formal military dining.  He had lots of helpful hints about the types of dresses to wear, where to buy the dresses, which fork to use and when, that you should stand on your husbands left and not right so he could salute a superior, and even had us practice shaking hands.  How to shake hands? Seriously?? At this point I was wishing the fork diagram on my “place setting” were real so I could poke my eyes out.  And the Protocol Officer? Yeah, he pretty much refused to acknowledge my existence the entire time I was there. I tried to get his attention though.  Looked him in the eye (he looked away), sat up taller.  “Was he going to talk about suits?” I wondered.  Nope.  I think I made him feel “uncomfortable.”  Welcome to the club, bud.  Though, if he had made us practice curtseying I think I would have punched him in the face.

So what’s the point of writing all this?  I dunno.  I guess it’s just to rant a little.  Sometimes I feel like the military and the military culture looks at me and other male spouses and believes we’re these mythical unicorns living over the rainbow frolicking with leprechauns.  But then, when confronted by us in reality, our third arm sprouts up from behind our heads somewhere and they have no idea what to do with us.  I guess that’s the main thing.  They have no idea what to do with us.  This has been made especially clear to me during my wife’s deployment.  I keep getting these e-mails about all these programs and support activities for spouses of the deployed but guess what? They’re all during the work day or involve some artsy, crafty stuff. You know, stuff that any guy would enjoy.  Oooh…I need to make sure I save that coupon I saw for Michaels!  Sure, there may be some stuff that’s supposed to be gender neutral, but based on my experiences so far of who goes to these things, no thanks.

But, back to playground.  Fortunately, my daughter had a great time and was spared from the feelings of being “different.”  All the Venu…er mom’s loved her.  It’s probably because she’s awfully cute (and no, I’m not even going to qualify that with a “to me,” because she is. So there.) and because they probably all knew that one day she would also grow up to be a Venusian as well.  NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

 

Tip of the Day: The military likes to use all sorts of code, acronyms and jargon to communicate.  For all you male spouses out there, it’s key to remember that in military talk “Spouse” really means “Wife”. So “Spouse’s Clubs” are really “Wives' Clubs” and anything advertised for military spouses really means wives.  If you remember that, then there will be no surprises.

“I will call those who were not My people, ‘My people,’ and her who was not beloved, ‘beloved.’  And it shall be that in the place where it was said to them ‘You are not My people,’ there they shall be called Sons of the Living God.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            -Romans 9:25-26

A Tale of Two Cities…

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that I’ve married into the military.  In our last assignment (our first) we lived in the San Francisco Bay Area.  Because my firm had a satellite office there  I would commute in the city for work.  The base my wife was stationed at was about 45 minutes north of San Francisco so naturally we chose to live in a town that was sort of in between both of our jobs.  It was a pretty good arrangement.  I could take a ferry from my town into the city thereby avoiding that infamous San Francisco traffic and my wife would commute north, going in the opposite flow of traffic.  It worked really, really well and we really, really enjoyed our life there.

That life was also, for me, relatively military free.  Due to the fact that we lived way off base I really had very little reason to ever go there.  As far as I was concerned we were just the average professional couple with our own separate careers.  The only reminder I had was the fact that she wore BDUs everyday to work whereas I got to go in my business casual affair. 

Here it’s different.  If it weren’t for the military there really wouldn’t be any reason for people to live here.  Sure it’s got its nice beaches at Eglin but other than that there’s really not much out here.  I was told by many that I should be prepared for the “Redneck Riviera” when we moved here.  Boy were they right.  Only here could pick-up trucks, gun-racks, mullets, and colorful beach umbrellas mix so seamlessly.  But back to the military.  The military here is EVERYWHERE.  If you look at a map of the area we live in you basically see our town with the Gulf of Mexico on one side and Eglin AFB on the other three sides.  We’re literally surrounded.  Everybody here is either in the military or in some sort of business to support the military.  That means we also live really close to base.  About 10 minutes door-to-gate. 

Today I was reminded again about this military life of ours.  Because it was a holiday, I had my daughter at home with me today so I decided to take her on some outings.  Our first stop in the morning was a shopping complex that had a toy store and a playground.  I wanted to get my daughter some blocks to play with and give her a chance to run around because the weather had finally turned nice.  After we left the toy store we walked over the playground where there were lots of other kids playing.  Being in a shopping center music was being piped through some loudspeakers mounted on palm trees.  It was rather nice as we played in the sun and grooved to nice, jazzy muzak and Colbie Calait.  We had a great time playing out there and I actually had some difficulty in getting my daughter to leave when it was time to go.

Later in the day, after my daughter’s nap, I thought that it might be nice to go out and play again.  This time, however, we decided to head to this nice playground they have on base.  So off we went.  When we got there it was pretty similar to the our experience in the morning.  Lots of kids playing, my daughter having a blast on the swings and the slide, and parents looking on.  The only difference was the lack of piped muzak on palm trees.  But that didn’t last long.  For some of you reading this you probably are all familiar with what happens on base at 4:30pm…oh sorry, 16:30.  At precisely 16:30 loudspeakers all over the base fire up and you hear trumpets that then leads into Star Spangled Banner, our National Anthem.  This was something I’d forgotten about. 

So at 16:30 the National Anthem comes on and EVERYTHING STOPS.  Cars are required to stop moving.  Non-uniformed people outside are supposed to stand still and if a flag is nearby, look in that direction.  Uniformed personnel are required to stand at attention and salute the flag.  Kind of neat but today it kind of creeped me out.  You see, when we got to the playground there were a ton of kids there.  And kids being kids they were running around, screaming like banshees.  It was loud, it was wild, and it was chaos.  But as soon as those trumpets sounded an amazing thing happened.  All those little Tasmanian devils stopped in their tracks and became silent.  These same hyperactive, hypersonic kiddos were now patiently waiting in place, waiting for the trumpets to cease, which, as soon as they did, those same kids transformed back into the Tasmanian devils they are.  It was weird. 

I felt like I had stepped into the twilight zone for a brief moment there.  I mean, I know adults are supposed to know the base regulations, but those kids.  It kind of weirded me out for a brief moment.  To see a scene go from chaos to pure silence and back again was surreal. It also reminded me that yes, I am married to the military (of whose service I’m very proud and grateful for), and yes, the military world is just…different.

Stopping to Smell the Roses…

Wow… What a week it has been.  A week that I definitely would not care to repeat again.  I think I was about at my limit in terms of all things that happened this past week and my capability to handle things.  Between my daughter’s visit to the ER, subsequent hospital visit (all traumatic for her, by the way), freaking her out in the bathtub, and just the craziness of my regular job along with the household stuff; I’m amazed I’m still conscious.  I have never been so low on energy as I have been at the end of this week.  So much so that I actually did something that I haven’t been able to do in quite a long time.

I took an afternoon nap.

You might be thinking “What’s the big deal? People take naps all the time.”  Not this guy. I don’t know why but I’ve never been able to fall asleep while the sun is up.  You can ask my wife.  She always thought that I was just weird for not taking advantage of the Sunday afternoon nap.  I just thought that she liked to sleep… A lot.  But today was different.  I had no reserves left and after I putting my daughter down for nap, I laid down and then was out cold.  But that’s not the point of this post.

In the midst of all the busyness of the week I began to realize something.  Time was flying by.  There didn’t seem to be enough hours in the day for everything.  The seconds were zipping by and this deployment of my wife’s was going to over before I knew it.  Good thing right?  Well, yes and no.

While it’s good that time seems to be moving faster, the reason for that is because my days are just so jam-packed.  This causes another effect in which I’m so pre-occupied with all this “stuff” going on that I don’t really have time to think about how much I miss my wife.  I realized that today when I finally seem to have time to breath.

In some ways this is a good thing.  It forces me to be active and in turn prevents me from wallowing in my own self-pity and sense of loneliness.  But the weird thing is, I want to miss my wife at the same time I don’t.  I don’t because frankly, well, it sucks.  I do want to miss her because she’s my wife and I love her. It’s only appropriate that I miss her. Long for her. Wish she were home.  So today, when I finally had time to stop for minute, when things were finally calm enough at home for me to have time to myself, I found myself missing her.  A lot.  And I didn’t mind it one bit.

Sins of the Father

                                                     I am…your father….

My daughter seems to be recovering well from our recent excursion to the ER that I wrote about last time.  She’s been able to walk around and move about pretty well, albeit with a slight limp.  She’s a little trooper, she is.  Still, I think I’m still carrying around a bit of guilt and sometimes I wonder if she thinks of me the way ‘ol Luke up there did when he discovered Vader was his father.  It didn’t help that we’ve had yet another “episode” during the week.  Again my fault but I’ll get to that in a minute.

So the guilt part.  Although I know that my daughter doesn’t blame me for any of this, every time I see her walking around with a little limp it just sends these little twinges of guilt through me and “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry” just rushes through my head.  This morning  I got her dressed for daycare and I put some extra thick socks on her (we’ve been having a cold spell) which of course, makes putting on her shoes a little more difficult.  The top of her foot is a bit tender still and with the thicker socks fit inside the shoe is tighter.  She whimpered a bit when I tried to put on the shoes.  Twinge of guilt.  Okay, no shoes. Then there was when she first came home from the ER and was wearing that splint (which went all the up to her knee) it just made me feel so bad.  Twinge of guilt. What’s worse is that splint is toddler sized and you know, all toddler sized things are cute.  I thought it was cute.  I took pictures.  I felt guilty for thinking it was cute and taking pictures.  I’m a bad, bad man. 

Then came the other episode this week.  One of my daughter’s favorite things is bath time.  Every evening we’ll ask her “You wanna’ go take a bath?”  and she’ll respond “Ba!!” while pointing to the bathroom.  I’ll get the water running and start getting her undressed and she’s literally squealing with excitment and doing her little dancey, dance (kinda’ like she needs to pee real bad).  We bathe her in the master bathroom and it’s a nice big jacuzzi tub with lots of room for her bath toys.  She’s having a grand time, splish splashing around and pretty much getting me soaked in the process.  We’re having fun.  Then she discovers a button on the side of the tub.  She LOVES buttons.  If something has a button on it, she wants to push it.  So she’s discovered this one huge button on the side of the tub and she’s trying to push it.  So I, in my infinite wisdom, think, “Oh! This might be fun!  Maybe she’ll enjoy the bubbles and the jets.”  You probably know where this is going now. 

So I help her push the button.  Now, our jacuzzi tub is not quiet.  It’s rather loud and obnoxious and the jets are a bit strong.  I did not think about this.  As the button is pushed the tub starts to hum and then gets on to full on rumbly, earthquake mode.  Then the jets start going.  So I’m looking at my daughter and smiling and going “Look! Bubbles!”  Only she’s not looking like she’s having fun.  Instead she’s looking around, then looks at me with eyes as wide as saucers.  Then she freaks the heck out.  What was once a fun innocent bath time for her is now….

That was on Tuesday.  So last night it was bath time again.  I didn’t really think about the episode on Tuesday anymore supposing it was a one time thing.  I just won’t turn on the jets. Lesson learned.  So we’re going through our same routine and she’s doing her little dancey, dance getting ready to go in the tub.  She’s excited to bathe and she’s covered in ketchup from dinner so she needs to bathe.   I put her in the tub and she’s starting to play.  Things seem back to normal.  Not more than 10 seconds later she begins to look around. All of sudden you see the look of recognition come across her face as she realizes where she is. And then… she freaks the heck out.  She’s crying, she’s reaching for me but she needs a bath!  So despite her crying I’ve got to scrub her down and wash her hair.  It was definitely not fun.  Bath was quick and I took her out to towel her off.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  I’ve now ruined bath time.  Then I noticed, as I was bundling her up and drying her off, through the bundle of towels she was giving me “The Look.” You know that look.  The one where only a woman can truly give.

The Look?

Tip: Hey Dad, your bright ideas aren’t always so bright.  Think your “cool” ideas through before you try them.