No mother ever envisions it for their own child. Walking through the giant sliding doors, down the hall, last door on the right. There's an adult-size door, and a child-size door. Fish tanks stretch from floor to ceiling, and there are stars on the linoleum. The walls are painted bright colors, and the desk is low, so the children can feel involved. Despite attempting to provide an inviting environment, the place is still scary as hell. On the wall: Scott and White Pediatric Hematology and Oncology.

Twice I've walked through those doors. And twice I've felt like throwing up. Twice, we've there in the waiting room while Elizabeth fawns over the fishies. Twice, we've waiting for the doctor to come in and see her bruising. Twice, we've had him order blood tests. Twice, we've been sent away, knowing no more than when we'd walked through the doors.

I feel like I'm living in one of those movies, where the parents are pushing against all odds to figure out what's wrong with their child. Where no one is listening to the parents. They stand by their child's side, arguing and standing their ground. But, they always find out answers. The movies make it look easy. The parents appear heroic. I feel broken. They seem indefatigable. I am exhausted. They have their helpmate their. I stand alone. Lost. Losing.

Tonight, I am at a dead end. Where do I go from here? How far am I willing to take this fight? To whom do I present Elizabeth's situation next? I don't know.

I do know that something is clearly wrong with my daughter. I do know that my husband is halfway across the globe, so far removed from all of this. I do believe in the power of prayer and the support of family and friends. And, I absolutely know that this mother will stop at nothing to find out what is wrong with my child. No distance is too far, no fear too great, no medical personnel too elite for me to overcome that obstacle and achieve a correct diagnosis.

I ask for your prayers, dear readers. Those of you who do read. I know not how many there are. But, if you could leave a comment letting me know you are praying so that I might take great peace from that, I'd be eternally grateful. I desperately need them right now. Elizabeth needs them right now. Thank you.

"Everytime I pulled out the camera the day I left, you stopped crying or looking sad, and would smile."

Yes, I did. The day that I felt like my heart was being ripped from chest, the day that I saw my daughter's favorite person board a bus, the that day I saw my best friend pull away--I smiled only in the pictures. There were moments of intense heartache, that panic overtook me, that I was gripping wildly at my last shred of self-control to not break into desperate tears. I watched you holding your daughter, with that calm, sad look in your eyes, I watched as you looked intently at me while holding her hand, I noticed how extra hard you held me as we hugged the last time.

You deserve better. I swallowed desperately, to hide the tears, the sadness. I smiled for you. And only for you. I knew you'd look at those pictures every day for the next twelve months, garnering strength, peace, fond memories. And what strength, what peace, what fond memories would you have received, if those photos showed a crying, down-trodden wife?

No. I stand tall for you. I walk forward for you. I sleep in a bed alone at night, not for myself, but for you. Because you deserve better. You deserve a wife who can hide tears behind a smile, shadow sadness behind laughter. You deserve a family who stands behind you 110%. You, sir, deserve a family that is heartbroken by your departure, but is strong enough to stand in your absence.

I will move forward for you. I hide my tears, shadow my sadness. I smile and laugh. I do all this for you. Because, while you fight the war, I hold down the homefront. While you are separated from loved ones, I instill joy in them. While you sleep on a cot in sand and stand in defense of our freedom, I sleep in an empty bed, and stand in defense of our family. I do not do this for me. I do not do this for pity or credit. I do this for you. Though separated by thousands of miles, we still fight together through prayer and isolation. We fight battles that are mirrored in their motives. I don't fight for myself. I fight for you. I stand for you. I smile and laugh for you. My Soldier.

I did it. I hadn't really ventured beyond my door, except twice to my parents' house, since Sunday. Maybe I'm the only one, but going somewhere without someone with whom you go almost everywhere can be daunting. Especially when you're still having major emotional ups and downs. I kept almost changing my mind. But, I promised my husband I would get involved and stay busy. So, I came home this morning after having crashed at my parents, threw together some Valentine's, and off we went to the children's Valentine's Party at Church. It was so nice to get out and be somewhere busy. Elizabeth was somewhat clingy, but really enjoyed watching the children all run around.

I've realized that victory sometimes lies in the small things, like realizing your crying less and less as each day goes by (so far, today's count is zero--that's unprecedented!). It lies in finishing the laundry all by yourself, even though you're used to help. It's getting through making a healthy meal for yourself and daughter and eating the entire plate, especially without getting a stomach ache. Victory really is making it through another day.

So, I feel good this evening, for the most part. I am still adjusting, still adapting. Still coming up with plans to make the time fly faster, and methods to stay more connected with the husband. I keep telling myself that if the deployment date came and went, so will the homecoming day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I would like to take a moment to thank friends and family for their prayers. Please, please keep them up. I know they are being answered. I might post a prayer that those of you who'd want, could say it for a particular intention of mine. But, regardless, God bless you all.

And Then He was Gone

The alarm pierced the morning, and my stomach burned with hot rocks. That had been happening every morning for the last few weeks, but today it was especially bad. I tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn't going off . I even shut it off quickly and hoped he hadn't heard it. If he didn't hear it, we wouldn't have to get up, and if we didn't have to get up, the rest of the day didn't have to happen. But, he was already up. He crawled back into bed next to me, and snuggled up close. I don't want you to go, I said.

But, he had to, and he did. It was a long morning that went by quickly. I don't want to relate it, right now, because my mind is in a good place. I like those waves to last as long as possible. I will say that he left a gargantuan hole. His departure broke my heart immensely and has destroyed our routine. Now, in some ways, we are re-shaping our days and re-centering our lives.

Sometimes, I am okay, and other moments I am really sad and angry. During those negative waves, the emotion is so intense and so hard to overcome. I quickly realized not to fight it. I just let myself cry. Once the crying is done, I usually feel better and enter the next wave of being okay. My prayer is that the okay-waves start lasting longer and come more frequently than the intense negative waves.

This morning, I started having a bad negative-wave. I just went into overdrive. I took a shower, got dressed, did my hair. I have to get dressed and do my hair, because doing this makes me feel better. I came out, and lit a fire. Yes, I started a fire all by myself. Not that I've never done this before, but doing things for myself makes me feel like I am fulfilling my mission. I am fulfilling my promise to hold down the homefront. I am staying confident and adding warmth to our house. I see the irony. The unit spouses' motto for this deployment is, "Keep the home fires burning." I intend to.

I see myself like this:

Standing in the middle of a giant football field, with the stands full. It's dark, but the stadium lights are lighting up the field. All of our friends and family are watching as I play in my first game. Only thing is, this game is the most important of the season and I know the plays and victory rely on solely on me. I am standing there, facing our family and friends, waving my arms up and down, asking for the cheering and rooting to get louder. For me, the cheering and rooting signifies the prayers and affirmation. The game is long and arduous and I am playing against a team of eclectic players. Terrorists, military orders, someone named separation, even my own self-doubt. Each quarter finds me closer to victory, though each lasts so long. Three months. The game, right now, is only seconds in. But, I am still leading on the scoreboard. And I guarantee that when the last second ticks off the board, when the game is over, and the stands are still hopefully full of our cheering friends and family, my team will have won. At the end of that game, I will still be standing, though covered in the blood, sweat, and tears. And, just as this battle ends, that one lone and empty seat in the stands will be occupied. Because for me, victory is only attained when my husband comes home.

Twas the Night Before....

So, here we are. The Night Before. His bags are packed, and one's already in the car. The house is cleaned and organized. The laundry's all done, and should be for the next six weeks, since I've been doing laundry all week. His nightstand is cleared off, and all of his clothes are neatly put away. Even the shoes he wears everyday. They're in the closet. Away.

It's starting to feel weird around here.

Recently, someone gave me great advice. Don't try to make this a great week. It wasn't. It was extremely special in its own way; but great, it was not. Errands took up most of our time, misunderstandings ate into a few hours, and I learned to force myself to be flexible yet again. I had his favorite dinner planned for tonight. I wanted to cook for him on his last night. But, as we left Mass, he asked for Cracker Barrel. So, dinnertime found me running in and grabbing our food, after having sat in the parking lot so he could pick up magazines for the plane. I was not resentful. I started to panic at one point, though, because I could feel the second hand ticking. I forced myself to calm down. At that moment, he came sprinting out of the store. I think we share a second hand.

I have been wallowing in these last few and precious moments. Watching while he plays with his daughter, who won't understand where Daddy has gone. Watching while he darts through the house cleaning to avoid his sadness. Watching him store items he won't be needing for twelve months. Watching him pack up his bags while Elizabeth tries to climb on his lap. Watching him laugh, smile, frown, and cry.

Watching him. Here. Now. Because he's going to leave a huge hole.

But, I do this for him. He's worth it. He's such a great and amazing and courageous man. I couldn't do what he's about to do. I would run. I would be far too scared. I hope people can see how phenomenal this man, this Soldier is. And I have the honor of being his wife. So, he's worth it. And, in a strange way, I take this as a major compliment. Apparently, he sees me as strong, brave, and worth it, too.

T Minus One Week....

T minus one week. One week and I am awash with emotions right now. Frustration at lack of time to finish necessary projects or to spend time with my husband. Immense sadness at living life for a full year without him. Fear of being without him, and of losing him.

I read the books. They said you feel excited to see them go, that's a natural reaction. I am not excited. I haven't been excited. Odds are, I won't get excited. Just scared and frustrated. It's really hard, too, not to let these emotions take hold of me, to be irrational. And in so many ways, too.

When it rains, it pours. Of course other struggles have surfaced this week that we are sorting through, as well. I reflect on Padre Pio's words, "Pray, Hope, and Don't Worry." I think, he clearly was not a wife and mother. And I chuckle. I know I mustn't worry. But, it's awfully hard.

I will miss getting up early with him on work-mornings to make his breakfast and lunch, racing the clock to have his over-easy eggs and toast on the table as he walks through the door from PT. I will have a hard time looking at the clock at three in the afternoon, and not get excited that he is coming home in two hours. I will miss watching him play with Elizabeth while I cook a dinner I'm sure he'll like. Evenings after seven, when my darling girl is in bed, will make me sad. That's our time--Mommy and Daddy time, we call it. We read or watch TV, and pray. We relax. Together. Weekends will be hard, since I usually relish sleeping in later with him next to me. Breathing. That bed will be terribly lonely.

But, life will move forward, just as it has the last few months. I've thought desperately as to how I can stop it. I can't. And so it will move while he's gone. It won't be easy. It won't be pleasant. But we will survive. For when I look into his face, so serious, confident, and strong, I know I can do it. I know that I am no victim. This is no Cross thrown on me by chance. The day I walked down the aisle to the man in uniform waiting for me, I accepted my mission. I said yes, confidently. My orders have been written; I am asked to make a sacrifice, too. I will be a steward to my husband, to my daughter. I will stand firm, steady, confidently behind my husband. I will do everything i can to "hold down the fort" in his absence, and make a happy time for my daughter. It's going to be sad, hard, tough. But we will conquer. I do this not for me. Not for glory or pity. I don't do this for sympathy. I do this for him. I do this for my Soldier.

My husband leaves in two weeks. Two more weekends, and he's gone. Why does this have to be so hard? I look at the other women in the unit, and they seem to take this all totally in stride. My husband reminds me gently that I look that way, too, in public.

Twelve months. "I can't imagine my husband being gone for 12 months." I need to make a list of ignorant statements people make to families of deployed soldiers. That one would top the list. Because I can clearly imagine my husband leaving for a huge amount of time...and we are actually okay with it (Hopefully the sarcasm is obvious). "It will go by quickly." Also not a comfort, in some ways, because I don't want to speed through a year of daughter's life, but am also simultaneously wanting that, so my husband will be home again. There's no easy answer.

I am panicked by the thought of making bad memories during these last two weeks. I cry at sad songs on the radio--every sad song. I hate waking up in the morning because it's one day closer to D-Day (Departure Day). I hate going to bed at night because I will wake up and it will be one day closer, etc. I want so badly to know that a new but temporary normal will arise. That life won't seem as dreary, empty, and slow like when he was at NTC. I have to hope that after awhile going to bed by myself won't seem such a drudgery. Dinners won't be as lonely, mornings won't be as empty without packing a lunch and making a breakfast.

I have to hope that eventually the fear of losing him won't feel like such a premonition. I have to pray and beg he'll come home as alive and healthy as I sent him off. Because thinking about the alternative is unbearable.

As unimaginable as civilian brides find living without their husband for an extended period of time, I can't imagine never having to worry about this. I can't imagine never having to plan for a year's separation and acknowledge the worst could happen. It's not normal and I don't feel badly for not liking it.

Charlie Mike. That's my mantra. For Richard. That's my oath.

Happy?! New Year

So, I am going to be honest. I was dreading the holiday so much that it surprised me. I knew why, however. In January alone, I will say four huge good-byes. I've already done one, as my sister left for North Carolina after an extended Christmas vacation. It was painful. Let's leave it at that. In a week and a half, my little sister (who still seems like she's 5 years old in my head) will be leaving for college for the first time. I don't know that I'll handle that well. Then, my twin brother, with whom I am incredibly close, is moving to Miama. Finally, the ultimate blow, my husband deploys for 12 months.

After learning a hard lesson about keeping my eyes on God as people and things leave, I know I must keep my peace and Faith. So, while I am usually not one to make New Year's resolutions, I am forming some for the next year. It will be vitally important.

• First, I plan on completing several large house projects. In my master bath, I will take down the wall paper border (I hate wall paper border) that is shriveling off my wall and repaint the hideous color. I will also re-do my bedroom colors. When I was a distracted bride-to-be, I chose a dark red and brown...and now my bedroom is oppressive. I am thinking about blue and brown with red accents. I have other projects in the plan.

• I am going to spend lots of time with my sister Kathleen, who will be the last child at home. As we are both going through a time of immense change, I know continuing to work on our already close relationship will be vital for both of us.
  

• I am going to kick my prayer life into high gear. I have several books recommended by dear friends that I will read and comment on here sporadically.
  

• I want to crochet something so badly and plan on working on some projects over the next year for Elizabeth and me. I'd also like to make a blanket. I also want to continue trying a variety of baking and cooking recipes. I have derived joy from trying different recipes over the past few months.
  

• I am going to ensure that I make time for me. I never do that. So, I am going to register for some work-out classes on post, continue to work on forging local friendships, and get better about leaving the house with Elizabeth. (I put off errands and shopping because I am fearful of shopping with her and her melting down. It's a really bad habit.)
  

• Finally, I am going to keep and update of all of this on here. I plan on writing more, with more focus and really use this to further root a life and attitude of peace and Faith.
  

Here's to hoping this makes 2011 a....better, happier year. Even though I'll not have my best friend at my side, he'll still be a part of our lives. And I have to keep making that life not just good, but better for him, for our daughter, and for me.

And so, after 7 months, I finally went back. Elizabeth and Richard were there, too. Still, the hole--the wound--is still so far inside me I shy away when people trod near it. It's still so personal, so internal.

It should be his first Christmas. I should have another Baby's First Christmas ornament on the tree. That's hard sometimes. But, he's in Heaven with the Angels and the Saints celebrating Jesus' Birthday, where music bursts forth and happiness abounds. I want nothing more for my son, especially on his First Christmas.

Dear Santa,

I know my letter is late this year, but I also know that you're still getting mail even this late. I have a few requests this year, though they be a little out of the ordinary.

First, dearest Santa, help me ignite a sense of wonder and magic in my daughter. Yes, for the twinkling lights, wrapped up presents, and images of you. But, more so, for that tiny Baby who is preparing to enter our world once again. As I reflect on Christmases of my youth, I remember a sense of silent, immense wait. There was an excitement that went beyond the tree, beyond the gifts, beyond the stockings. I was waiting for my Savior's birth. I want that for my daughter as well.

Secondly, I want my husband to come home safely from Iraq. I wish I could ask that he wouldn't go. But, I couldn't feel right about that. He has been asked to go, and I have to support him--I want to support him. He needs me behind him. So, instead, please make sure comes home safely and healthy. Next year, Santa.

Finally, help me to be the wife and mother this Christmas that I am meant to be. Help give me patience, courage, peace, hope, and joy as we face great Crosses in this little home. Remind all of us that when life seems dark and the days seem endless, we must fall to our knees and seek Christ. When the days are light and joyful, help us also to remember to kneel and give thanks.

You see, Santa, what I ask for cannot be wrapped under the tree, cannot be slipped into a stocking. Rather, please wrap my heart around these virtues, most especially of hope. Please slip these petitions into my prayers, as I seek a closer relationship with Christ.

I am grown now, Santa, but I know where you are. In Heaven. With Jesus.

Merry Christmas, Santa. Kiss the Baby Jesus for me.

Love,
Adrienne

So last night, I had this horrible dream. I had a bird's eye view on Richard in Iraq. He was sitting in what appeared to be some sort of bed or something with five Iraqi children while he read to them. All the while, mortar fire was going off around them. As my view got closer and closer, Richard looked up at me with the most mournful expression and I knew what was about to happen. I was about to watch my husband die in Iraq.

I woke up before that happened, thankfully. But, I spent the next 20 minutes pacing the house, convincing myself that wasn't going to happen. I went and checked on Elizabeth, who was oddly awake herself, and we snuggled for a bit. I finally crawled back into bed and snuggled close to my husband.

The footlocker is right next to the Christmas tree, ironically. The last thing I wanted for Christmas this year were deployment orders. But, we've got them. I remember last New Year's, just as the clock struck twelve a.m., praying so hard my husband would be here all year, that we'd celebrate New Year's of 2011 with him in the same room. Ha Ha, God. He ships out a couple of weeks after New Year's. That actually is funny to me.

Yesterday, we met with our financial advisor and were completing the "just in cases" for the deployment. The way she so freely and, sometimes laughingly, talked about the various scenarios of Richard's death disturbed me greatly. It hits on a very deep, very real fear (often times more like a premonition) that Richard won't make it home. I've spoken of this terribly dark and paralyzing fear to two other people--my husband and a very dear friend.

That's why the dream terrified me so much last night. It's why I paced the floor, why I stood, staring at that G0d-awful footlocker at 2 am. I'd like to kick it, but I think that would hurt me more than it would hurt it. I just pray my fear is wrong. That Richard will come home. And that this war and everything will end. This Christmas, I understand the prayer for Peace on Earth. If we human beings just knew how to get along, life would be a lot easier for everyone. But try explaining that to us--we are such a stubborn species.

Meanwhile, I try to ignore that massive black box, to shush the fear, to focus on Today. While my husband is home. Christmas will be wonderful because we will make it wonderful. New Year's will be celebrated with all its festivities. Then, life will begin. But, I deal with that Tomorrow.

We are strange creatures, we people.

The entirety of our experience comes through our five senses. Everything we learn, everything we know is based on what we can see, hear, smell, touch, taste. So, when we can't sense something, it's that much harder to grasp. Especially when we've become accustomed to doing so.

It's been a week since we said good-bye. It seems like longer. Much longer. Seems like it's been weeks. Weeks since I've heard his voice or felt his touch. At first this was so hard, especially last Sunday. That was the worst night so far. But, then it felt like he just stopped existing. Days have a new normal and we just plug along. Before, I worked towards evening, when he'd walk through the door. Now, I'm not sure what I move towards. Just the next moment. The next block of time--morning, afternoon, evening, night. I just keep moving.

Some moments are hard. Mostly, moments are boring. I try not to get emotional because it's weak and reminds me how hard this is and how hard it's going to be. I start to think we are well into this and the end of it all must be near, only to remember it's just beginning. He will come home, be here for a little while, and leave again. This whole vicious cycle will start anew. I will be reminded of his touch, his smell, and then lose it all over again and for a much longer time.

I thought evening would be toughest. It's not. I just throw myself into cleaning or schoolwork and keep busy, just as I have been all day. It's night time. When the house gets quiet. And dark. And I crawl into a big, empty bed. My mind has nothing to distract it, and I become acutely aware of the emptiness next to me. Aware of the cold, empty space.

I tell myself he's out there. Even though I can't see him. Or feel him. He's out there. But, it feels so weird.

Somewhere in a field in California, my husband is crawling through woods, wading through creeks, perhaps marching a great distance.

Here in Texas, there is a tiny girl who misses him and doesn't understand where he's gone and her mother aches some moments.

I am frequently told to extend thanks to my husband for his service. These same people tell me I am also to be thanked, because I am making great sacrifices, as well. Before, it was easy. Now, it's starting to get hard. Really hard.

The deployment chapter has begun. Though he hasn't technically left for the Sand Box, he's doing the preliminary training. Last Sunday, he left for a month and on Friday, we began the two weeks of zero communication. I am going to be honest, unashamedly so: It hurts. At moments, I have such an extreme ache because I sense his absence so intimately. Then, I realize a month is nothing when I think about the length of the deployment. Right now, I can't hear him, see him, touch him. If this is hard for me, the absence is that much harder for my eleven month old daughter.

Elizabeth is cognizant enough to understand Daddy has disappeared; unfortunately, she's too young to explain the situation. She crawls the house in a frenzy, calling out "Da Da! Da Da???" She's made every object, from pacifiers and TV remotes to books and shoes, into a phone that she puts to her ear and talks to Dada. She gets sad, angry, frustrated. While playing with her toys, she'll use one hand for play, while the other hand grips my t-shirt in a desperate attempt to keep me from disappearing, too. My heart aches for her. A normally easy-going baby, Elizabeth is clearly not handling this well.

And my thoughts frequently turn to my husband, the hero who is training for a larger mission. Who is likely forgoing sleep, food, and rest in preparation to serve his country, fulfill his mission, and protect his family. Somewhere out in California is a man who is likely missing his wife and longing for his daughter.

Yes, I understand the thanks, now. This is not easy. My husband is making sacrifices, but his family is, as well. So, I will take the thanks when offered. But, what means more right now are the prayers. Because we need them. My heroic husband needs them. His tired, frustrated wife needs them. But, more than either of us, his little girl needs them. Because while Mommy and Daddy can understand this, she doesn't. The center of her universe has disappeared. And she wants him back, and is terrified her mommy will disappear as well.

And so it begins. Though, I suppose it all began when my husband spent the week out in the field, but the time was so short that it didn't feel much like training for the deployment. This weekend, however, we say one of the long good-byes. He'll be leaving for the field for thirty days. For two of the weeks ("The Box"), we will not have any form of communication, and I already know that will be very hard on me. These next thirty days are going to be incredibly taxing emotionally, spiritually, even physically since I will be holding down the fort and Baby till he gets home.

So, I am determined to use the time for good in two ways. First, I have decided to do a thirty-day, at-home Ignatius retreat (Consoling the Heart of Jesus) and a book for mothers (A Mother's Rule of Life) that a friend of mine strongly suggested. Through the next thirty days, I am hoping to become a (much) better wife and mother and to improve my very stagnant spiritual life. Secondly, I will use the time as a dry run for the upcoming deployment (getting too close too fast--ack!) by trying out different schedules, activities, and weekly goals and rewards to make the time go faster. I think, for Elizabeth's and my sake, making some sort of schedule for the days, weeks, and months will be necessary and very helpful.

So, here goes nothing. I'll spend the next few days holding my husband closer, letting Elizabeth get as much Snuggle time with Daddy as possible. Then, we say good-bye. It'll be practice, and it'll also be hard. But, nothing worth having isn't hard, so may God help me to use time while he's gone for the betterment of my family and my soul.

Life is so busy and harried, especially right now for my little family. My husband started a new job, which means he is deploying MUCH sooner than we had anticipated. He is training at remote locations for a total of five weeks before departing in January for twelve months. My daughter is into everything, trying to stand, and very clingy lately. I, because I am now certifiably insane, have begun pursuing my Master's on top of keeping house, staying at home full time with said daughter, and preparing for the training and deployment. With all of this going on, I've hardly had time to return phone calls, finish housework, or pray. But, just when life seems craziest, a moment comes that stops me in my tracks.

Tonight, I was putting my precious child to bed, a task I do every night. Usually it's a bit of a struggle, since she doesn't like diaper changes as of late. Most nights, I pick up my teary daughter after changing her into pajamas and hold her close. I hand her a blanket. That's when the Moment comes. She quiets immediately, puts her tiny thumb in her mouth, and, grasping the blanket close, she lays her head against my chest. I feel her breathing and her warmth. I sense her calm. I watch, as her breathing slows. She feels safest here. In my arms. I make a person feel safe. Feel warm. Feel calm. I am some one's mother.

Moments like those make me stop. Make me realize that, no matter what comes or is looming, all will be just fine. I have my daughter who sees safety and comfort in my arms. My daughter, who loves me unconditionally. Oddly, I find the same sensations when I hold her in my arms, as well.

Case Lots and Fried Bologna

As I was making lunch for my husband and me this morning, a random memory popped into my head:

There was a time when my life, at times, seemed black and white. Literally. Lots of black and white. The Commissary, the military's grocery store, used to stock generic brands. Super cheap, these products were usually packaged in the plainest, most boring packaging probably known to man. Black and White. "Sugar Cookies." "Puffed Cheese." These ridiculously boring products graced my home in every way possible, since my mother had six mouths to feed. I didn't know the difference--it all tasted the same to me. Until my mother started shopping the case lot sales.

Once a year, the Commissary makes a big to-d0 about their Case Lot Sales. The parking lots are covered in giant white tents and boxes and flats are strewn everywhere. My mother would stock up on, gasp, name brand items! Wow, Fruit Loops! I was blinded by color. While the food generally didn't taste much different in actuality, somehow the brand names and wild colors made the food taste better. This one time a year, we would see food enter our home that normally wouldn't come in.

Bologna.

One year, when I was in middle school, my mother bought what seemed like hundreds of cases of bologna. Oscar Mayer. I don't remember it coming into the house, but I remember it leaving. Very slowly. A few months after we bought the meat, we came up on orders to move. This was usually one of my favorite times. We were not only permitted but encouraged to eat whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted it. Cookies? Eat it--we can't move with those! Beans? Make them for lunch because we need to get rid of them. The closer Moving Day became, the more of a smorgasbord dinner became. A table full of random, tasty morsels.

That year in middle school, though, we kids had forgotten about the bologna. We didn't eat it for awhile. When it came moving time, Mom told us that, among other foods, the bologna had to be eaten. Before that time, I loved bologna. I enjoyed its taste and the sandwiches appealed to me.

We ate bologna for what seemed like months. Baked, fried, sandwiches, cut up into dishes. It never stopped. Just as we thought we'd finished off the last package, another would appear. Secretly, I thought they were multiplying in the basement or something. My mother, not one to throw anything away (something I've now taken from her), continued to insist it get eaten. I have vivid memories of gagging on it in unison with my five brothers and sisters. This just happened to occur every time my mother would enter the room, who reminded us that it wasn't that bad. That, I believe, was the only time growing up that my mother used the starving children in China bit.

I will never forget when that last piece of bologna was eaten (after a brief, intense argument over who had to eat the piece of bologna) and the empty packaging was thrown away. We had eaten all the bologna. It was gone. We Smith kids still laugh about our Bologna exploits. While I can now stomach bologna again, it's not my preferred deli meat by far. And don't even think about frying it. Ew.

Pick your Poison

I knew it was going to happen. We both did. We were told as much when HRC (human resources for the Army) requested my husband submit his next assignment "choices." (I say "choices" because that very use of the term is a bit of a joke in the Army. They send you where they need you. But, I digress.) I had decided I wasn't going to think about it--not until it was certain.

Then came the call. Richard had just visited the unit he's joining in September. He told me about the guy from college he knew in the unit, what the unit was doing. And then paused. He also told me where I'd be going in the unit, Richard told me. Two slots were open. Iraq in March; Afghanistan in May. Pick your poison.

Despite knowing this was coming, I had found myself deliberately praying he wouldn't have to go. But hope is a stubborn one. Now, I am pulling the deployment books out and trying to wrap my head around this whole idea. Admittedly, it doesn't seem real since we haven't transferred to the new unit and are knee deep in current training with this unit. He has no orders. So, that darned hope is still sitting way down there. But, I know.

Being a military brat, my experience doesn't extend quite this far. My father was Active Duty during a time of peace (except Desert Storm, where he was told after volunteering he was needed at home). The longest my father was absent was two months. I was five. I don't remember it.

Twelve months is a long time. It's not "we'll get by till he gets home." This will be living life while he's deployed. Big difference.

So, here we enter into an adventure I don't really care to join, but I must. It's an adventure I have no idea how to fight or what to expect. I fear the unknown. Only God knows what is in our future; only He knows what life has in store. I have a million questions about various aspects. What to do? What's going to happen? What does this entail? Slowly, they will be answered.

This will be a long journey. And it will be hard. Hard for Richard, for me, for Elizabeth. And hard for our family. But, we will prevail. There is no other option. We will stand. And we will fight. While life will be hard, I will stand strong behind my husband. I will hold down the home front. I will be vigilant for my soldier. Victory, for me, will come when my soldier returns home. And we will attain victory.

Meanwhile, Charlie Mike.

There is so much going on in my life, constantly. My daughter, a mere seven months, is teething, chattering, clapping, crawling and now standing up. Not satisfied with these accomplishments (all attained within the last month), she's now trying to walk while holding onto us. Gone are the days of leaving her in one place, knowing I'll come back to her in the same place. Now, she'll cross the room in mere seconds.

My husband's work schedule is getting ready to be even crazier. He is Active Duty, but attached to a Reserve Unit and finishing up his Command. So, not only does he get to work the crazy schedule during the week, he is also required to show up once a month and two weeks (usually longer) in the summer and train. So, in a matter of days, we commence Annual Training--29 straight days of early mornings and late nights. I say "we" because it truly does affect both of us.

Following that, he finished up his Command, does the Change of Command, and transfers to a new unit. My husband will be joining 1st Cav here at Fort Hood, a unit scheduled to deploy early Spring. His hours will more than likely get crazier, since he's going to the Division headquarters, and we will be meeting a whole new set of people and starting over in some respects.

It's easy for me to get distracted by all of this. I tend to find myself dwelling on all of these things with a mixture of (mostly) excitement and (a little) apprehension (except the deployment. That's a whole different story). My mind is so easily drawn towards worrying, fretting, and planning that I totally forget where my focus should be. I was reminded today.

As I drove into Fort Hood to have lunch with my husband, I was chattering with my happy daughter. She was in a good mood, which was great! I love bringing her into the office when she's cheerful. While eating with my husband, I became so...joyful. The moment really brought happiness and pulled my crazy-active mind right back to where it should be. Here.

On the way home, I turned off the radio. I mentally looked heavenward and thought, "Thank you, Jesus, for my husband. Thank you, Jesus, for my daughter. Thank you, Jesus, for my family and for my friends. For my house, and my life, thank you, Jesus." All the crazy things in life are going to happen, or they aren't. But, whatever the outcome, I have to remember to focus on what God has given me in the present. I am getting ready to enter a busy few months, but God willing, I am going to work on shifting my focus back to here---back to my little family.

CHARLIE MIKE

If I ever have twins (which are very common in my family history) and if they are boys, I will name the oldest Charlie and the youngest Mike. Anyone military-related will find that funny. I think it would be hilarious. CM, or Charlie Mike, is an acronyms in the military for Continue Mission. For military, this not only applies constantly to on-the-job duties, but it also becomes a way of life for their families.

I remember a week after returning from our honeymoon, my husband and I were driving across Fort Hood so I could get my military ID. While looking around at the familiar and homey barbed wire, and parade fields, I commented that this must be quite a culture shock for some new brides. I grew up Military, so marrying my husband wasn't a complete culture shock. I was confident that I knew it all. I would be fine. This was a smooth transition for me.

I was wrong. The military that my father proudly served in was quite different than the one today. There were no deployments, to speak of. While he was away often, we didn't go long periods without seeing him. So, while I have been able to operate on day to day duties, I am beginning to enter a culture shock of my own.

Deployment is always a possibility. In January, my husband was put on orders suddenly and told he was going to Haiti for six months. Within a week, his entire unit was prepared and practically walking out the door, only to be told to stand down. I still to this day think that week took ten years off my life. Reality slapped me in the face. I was in no way prepared for a deployment, emotionally or otherwise. I cried so many times when he wasn't looking, worrying over who was going to help me get through. How was everything going to get done. I knew I'd have to start educating myself and getting ready. It was inevitable. Charlie Mike. Now, a probable deployment is on the horizon for this Spring.

Richard and I have had a lot going on since we walked down the aisle. Life hasn't calmed down. While that has brought some blessings, like our honeymoon surprise daughter (and that was a huge surprise), life has brought us a great deal of Crosses, too. It seems as though just as life is beginning to feel calm and predictable, it turns upside down.

This rang all too clear for us when we found out we were pregnant with our second child. Only four months postpartum, I was in no way prepared for another baby. I called my mother crying, asking her how this happened. (Yes, I do know.) She comforted me as best she could. When I got off the phone, I looked at my husband. "What are we going to do?" Charlie Mike, was his response. And we did. I took the time I needed and began emotionally preparing myself for two. I told myself that I can handle anything if I am forced to. It's not a choice, it's a must.

When we lost our baby, I mourned and grieved, but I Continued Mission. I had to go on. For Elizabeth and Richard. It wasn't a choice, it was a must.

While Charlie Mike has always been a joke (honey, I forgot to thaw something--what now? Charlie Mike!) , this has become a way of life for me. I am no longer that scared young mother that stood in the nursery that cold January day, wondering who was going to change the garbage bag if I forgot when Richard left. I am now the military wife and mother who, when I have an armful of groceries and am holding my daughter while realizing the door is locked and my keys are in the purse, thinks "Charlie Mike, Adrienne." Figure it out, now. Practice.

I no longer worry about the deployment, wondering "Oh, God. How am I going to live 12 months like that?" or, "Who will help me?" Now, I acknowledge, "Bummer. But, we'll get through it." There will be hard times. I very well maybe brought to my knees some days. But, bring it. I am a military wife. When life gets tough now or during deployment, I might cry sometimes, I may whine at moments. But I will stand up each time, envision my husband's face, and Charlie Mike. Because he deserves it.

My Path

I have to be honest, because I hate liars and imposters. The very act of lying to me is so atrocious and dreadful.

I am not strong. I am not amazing. I am not good. I merely am moving in the only direction I can. If I had a choice, I would not be walking this path; I would have gone running in another direction long ago. When the doctor got that horrible look on his face, I would have rung the bell and have chose a different outcome. Instead of what I truly saw, I would have chosen a living baby. I would be seventeen weeks along today. Kicking and activity would still be felt. I wouldn't know he was a boy.

To the world, I am composed, strong. I move through the day with that glass smile. Only one person can see beyond the farce. He knows. And he loves me anyway. I laugh when I am supposed to, tell my funny stories on cue, pretend to be lively when required. Inside, there's a different story.

Inside, I frown sometimes, I cry at moments. Inside, I feel weak, old, jaded, and bitter. I cannot pray. When I do, it's merely words, no emotions. No sense of Faith or belief. The conviction isn't there. At Mass, I don't feel the sweeping emotions of gratitude, happiness, connection with God. I feel empty.

I closed the door. I shut it hard. And locked it. Everything is contained in there. Sometimes, insensitive people have come and knocked in it, curious as to what happened. They ask horrible questions, demand to hear details. I have felt such hatred at those moments. Horrible. All-consuming, burning hatred that demands to be let out. I don't let anyone in all the way. I merely show them into the foyer, and we stay there. Everyone. And that is bad.

I have had people tell me I am strong. I am an inspiration. I don't know why. I am not. I am lost, blind, cold. I am searching for The Way, but cannot find it. I long for The Sight, but cannot place it. I yearn for The Warmth, but He doesn't seem to be here. I call out, wildly, desperately, but He does not hear. No one hears. So I sit. Waiting. Hurting. Sometimes hating.

I am not strong. I am a weak, faulted person. I had no choice but to continue walking this path that was chosen for me. I would have chosen another way; I would detour if given a choice. So, strong, inspiring, amazing, I am not.

I would like to know what people see in me that is inspiring. Amazing. Strong. I do not see it. Maybe because I am blind? Lost? Cold? In this giant, swirling blizzard of my life I stand calling out. In the noise and chaos, He doesn't hear. He hasn't come. Instead, He took my treasure from me and went far away.

Still, I stumble behind Him, groping in the darkness for some guidance. A branch, a word. I continue till I find it. Because this is my path. This is what was chosen for me.