I always welcome hearing from other's perspective. In light of that, one of my readers Emma is guest posting about an interesting topic--service members transferring from the Military to civilian workforce. Thanks for broadening our perspective, Emma!
Emma is a mid 20-something year old with a passion for life, love,
fitness, and helping others. She loves to be active and get involved in
as many sport and community activities as possible. Emma is currently
studying to become a Career & Life Coach, and loves to network with
people from around the world! Check out Emma’s blog at http://smileasithappens.blogspot.com/
Myths and Truths About Life After the
Military
Every veteran’s situation is unique, some transition from
the military after a minimum commitment while others retire after a much
longer career. Either way, the transition can present some
challenges. Often, these challenges are compounded by the myths you have
probably heard concerning the transition. Let’s take a look at a
few common myths and learn the truths that can set you on the path
toward success.
Myth:
Finding a non-military job after a long time in the military will be
overwhelmingly difficult.
Truth: Many skills used in the military are transferrable to
private-sector jobs. Firms such as Recruit Military
specialize in connecting military veterans and military spouses with
companies seeking to fill open positions. Recruit Military also offers
assistance with resume writing, hosts job fairs and supplies several
other job services to veterans and their spouses.
Myth: Job applications are difficult and
time consuming to complete.
Truth: Companies today understand the importance of attracting the
best employees to fill open positions. In order to do so, many companies
have simplified the application process by partnering with mobile
recruiting programs, like JIBE to allow job seekers to
easily upload resumes and other pertinent information directly from
computers, tablets or smart phones.
Myth: Because you were discharged with a
service-related injury you will have a hard time finding a
job.
Truth: In addition to laws that give preference to veterans applying for
certain jobs, the
government also has several programs available to assist
disabled veterans seeking to reenter the workforce. You may be
eligible to receive on-the-job training, vocational rehabilitation,
personal counseling and more. These programs are committed to
providing disabled veterans with the help they need to find and maintain
gainful employment.
Myth: Looking for a job is simply a process of
sending out a resume and waiting.
Truth: There’s a lot more to finding a job than simply submitting
resumes. You need to network, make follow up calls and sell yourself to
potential employers. Attending job fairs and social events will help
you get your name into the right circles. Employers won’t be knocking
on your door looking to hire you, it is your job to get out there
and sell yourself!
As you make the transition
into civilian life, you’ll learn about some wonderful resources
available to you and in time, opportunities you never dreamed could
come your way.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
There is a strength that can be found in this path. But, you must also find strength to remain on this path.
I walk around my house, slowly becoming a home, trying to decide where to start next. What box to unpack now. And where to put it. What needs to go to a new home.
I want the boxes gone. Done.
We have moved four times in the last year-ish. Before we even arrived back in Texas (much to our surprise), we had our assignment changed five times. All this following a deployment. Surprisingly, I handled it okay. At times, I became irritated or frustrated. Cranky. But, mostly, I just swung with the changes. I have seen so many boxes in the last year, packed a place so many times (and so quickly), that I am sick of seeing and smelling cardboard. And it does have a smell. It fills your home quickly. Amidst this latest move, I started to say, If I ever see a box again, it will be too soon. I never finished the sentence.
In two years, we will pack up this home and head out again. Move again.
And that's okay. I have the strength to do it. I might not be thrilled about unpacking today, or clearing the moving clutter off that counter AGAIN. I might kick the packing paper after I stub my toe on a box for the umteenth time, but I move forward. Because I muster the strength.
The strength I see in my husband, who makes the biggest sacrifice. Always prepared to make an even bigger sacrifice. The strength I feel when I look at our neighbors here on post, all moving through the same life. The strength I am reminded of when I pull the pictures and photos out of boxes and hang them on the wall. Those things are our home; they move with us. Everywhere. The strength I hear when we are sitting in bed at night, and Taps plays out all over the Army Post on the loud speaker in the darkness. I stop cold every time.
There's a strength I grasp when my girls are wrestling with more transition, scared of change. I become the pillar that they need when everything around them is changing and being packed in paper and boxes. When they cry out they don't want to leave their house again. The strength I force when talking deployments and moves...because they are real. And always inevitable.
There's a strength I feel when I am reminded again that that I am a Third Generation Army Wife. A sense of pride. I can do this, because my mother and my mother's mother walked this path.
Yes, I can unpack one more box. Put stuff somewhere. Record more damage. And more. And then more. I can move again when the time comes. I can hug away the fear, kiss the tears. I can stand tall and proud and firm for my Soldier. I can hang more pictures, knowing they'll come down all too soon. I can get irritated over the chips and gouges and then get over it.
Because of the Strength. The Strength I feel. And the Strength I make.
I walk around my house, slowly becoming a home, trying to decide where to start next. What box to unpack now. And where to put it. What needs to go to a new home.
I want the boxes gone. Done.
We have moved four times in the last year-ish. Before we even arrived back in Texas (much to our surprise), we had our assignment changed five times. All this following a deployment. Surprisingly, I handled it okay. At times, I became irritated or frustrated. Cranky. But, mostly, I just swung with the changes. I have seen so many boxes in the last year, packed a place so many times (and so quickly), that I am sick of seeing and smelling cardboard. And it does have a smell. It fills your home quickly. Amidst this latest move, I started to say, If I ever see a box again, it will be too soon. I never finished the sentence.
In two years, we will pack up this home and head out again. Move again.
And that's okay. I have the strength to do it. I might not be thrilled about unpacking today, or clearing the moving clutter off that counter AGAIN. I might kick the packing paper after I stub my toe on a box for the umteenth time, but I move forward. Because I muster the strength.
The strength I see in my husband, who makes the biggest sacrifice. Always prepared to make an even bigger sacrifice. The strength I feel when I look at our neighbors here on post, all moving through the same life. The strength I am reminded of when I pull the pictures and photos out of boxes and hang them on the wall. Those things are our home; they move with us. Everywhere. The strength I hear when we are sitting in bed at night, and Taps plays out all over the Army Post on the loud speaker in the darkness. I stop cold every time.
There's a strength I grasp when my girls are wrestling with more transition, scared of change. I become the pillar that they need when everything around them is changing and being packed in paper and boxes. When they cry out they don't want to leave their house again. The strength I force when talking deployments and moves...because they are real. And always inevitable.
There's a strength I feel when I am reminded again that that I am a Third Generation Army Wife. A sense of pride. I can do this, because my mother and my mother's mother walked this path.
Yes, I can unpack one more box. Put stuff somewhere. Record more damage. And more. And then more. I can move again when the time comes. I can hug away the fear, kiss the tears. I can stand tall and proud and firm for my Soldier. I can hang more pictures, knowing they'll come down all too soon. I can get irritated over the chips and gouges and then get over it.
Because of the Strength. The Strength I feel. And the Strength I make.
Sunday, July 07, 2013
She and I were sitting in the vestibule. She's at that fun age where she's constantly making noise and moving at Mass. So, there we were. With a sweet, older woman to our left, and two loud chatty women to our right (but that's a vent for another day). I was singing one of the songs as the priest prepared Communion, was feeling such great peace. All of a sudden this woman was standing before me.
"Why are you not in the choir?"
"Ma'am?"
"Why are you not in the choir?"
I pointed to the cuteness personified sitting on my lap. "Because of her," I laughed.
"Oh, don't let that be an excuse. We can work around that." (Trying not to get offended at that.)
"Well, thank you, ma'am. I have another little girl, too, so I just feel more needed in the pew."
"That voice is a gift. Don't waste it."
When I was in middle school, my voice was enough to offend cats. It was horrible. I don't know why. But, it was. By high school, it was alright, so I joined the choir. I have always loved to sing. I sing in the car, while cleaning the house, walking through the grocery store with my girls. They love to hear me sing. Sometimes, when we are home, I will sing Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" with accompanying stage antics, much to the girls glee.
"O-gain! O-gain!" Mary giggles
"Again, Mommy! Again! " chimes Elizabeth.
And I do. With great joy.
In the grocery store, I've been stopped by people and told to audition for American Idol (whatever. That's for REALLY good people!). I've received the advice before about joining the Church Choir. I don't think my voice is that great, but apparently it's improved since middle school.
But, thing is, I don't want to be in the Church choir. I don't want to audition for those shows. Some people were born to sing in front of the congregation. Some were meant to sing in front of millions.
Me? No.
I was born to sing next to tiny beds. I was meant to sing over a bassinet. I don't need fame out there. I have it at home. I have my small audience right there, that loves my crazy stage antics, that cheers while I sing.
When my oldest girl was an infant, she would scream for over twelve hours a day. A horrible, gut-wrenching scream. Colic. My all-time nemesis. I would put her on her tummy across my thighs while rocking her. I'd put her tiny aching belly across the boppy on the floor and rub her back. I'd put her in bouncy seats and swings. I'd hold her, talk to her.
Nothing worked.
Except for one thing. Singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I started singing it once when she was just days old, when I was out of my mind crazy. And she stopped. She stopped screaming, and just looked at me. And for the first time since her birth, I felt a connection. She was hearing me. I would sing it for hours, sensing the comfort. Sensing the connection. I still sing it to her. She loves it, requests it. It makes my heart happy. And hers, too.
No. I do not wish to sing in front of hundreds. I do not want to sing in front of millions. I just want to sing for the little souls with which God blessed me with. That is fulfilling enough for me.
"Why are you not in the choir?"
"Ma'am?"
"Why are you not in the choir?"
I pointed to the cuteness personified sitting on my lap. "Because of her," I laughed.
"Oh, don't let that be an excuse. We can work around that." (Trying not to get offended at that.)
"Well, thank you, ma'am. I have another little girl, too, so I just feel more needed in the pew."
"That voice is a gift. Don't waste it."
When I was in middle school, my voice was enough to offend cats. It was horrible. I don't know why. But, it was. By high school, it was alright, so I joined the choir. I have always loved to sing. I sing in the car, while cleaning the house, walking through the grocery store with my girls. They love to hear me sing. Sometimes, when we are home, I will sing Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" with accompanying stage antics, much to the girls glee.
"O-gain! O-gain!" Mary giggles
"Again, Mommy! Again! " chimes Elizabeth.
And I do. With great joy.
In the grocery store, I've been stopped by people and told to audition for American Idol (whatever. That's for REALLY good people!). I've received the advice before about joining the Church Choir. I don't think my voice is that great, but apparently it's improved since middle school.
But, thing is, I don't want to be in the Church choir. I don't want to audition for those shows. Some people were born to sing in front of the congregation. Some were meant to sing in front of millions.
Me? No.
I was born to sing next to tiny beds. I was meant to sing over a bassinet. I don't need fame out there. I have it at home. I have my small audience right there, that loves my crazy stage antics, that cheers while I sing.
When my oldest girl was an infant, she would scream for over twelve hours a day. A horrible, gut-wrenching scream. Colic. My all-time nemesis. I would put her on her tummy across my thighs while rocking her. I'd put her tiny aching belly across the boppy on the floor and rub her back. I'd put her in bouncy seats and swings. I'd hold her, talk to her.
Nothing worked.
Except for one thing. Singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I started singing it once when she was just days old, when I was out of my mind crazy. And she stopped. She stopped screaming, and just looked at me. And for the first time since her birth, I felt a connection. She was hearing me. I would sing it for hours, sensing the comfort. Sensing the connection. I still sing it to her. She loves it, requests it. It makes my heart happy. And hers, too.
No. I do not wish to sing in front of hundreds. I do not want to sing in front of millions. I just want to sing for the little souls with which God blessed me with. That is fulfilling enough for me.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
So, I decided, on a whim, that we girls needed to make cookies today. Less than an hour before naptime, my oldest and I decided on Peanut Butter cookies. So we made them.
We measured and mixed, combined and stirred. She was elated to turn on the mixer. What a helper! I decided that she should be the one to put the criss-crosses on the cookies. It was so cute teaching her!
"First this way," I said, "and then this way." I showed her with a few cookies, and then let her go to work. With each cookie that I put on the sheets, I'd hear her say quietly, "First dis way, den dis way." She reminds me so much of myself at that age--sometimes it scares me! Because I know her spirit and her heart are probably very similar to mine. What a huge responsibility to guard and form them!
It's all about the simple things. Spending time with my little sweetie was wonderful! And what a good helper!
We measured and mixed, combined and stirred. She was elated to turn on the mixer. What a helper! I decided that she should be the one to put the criss-crosses on the cookies. It was so cute teaching her!
"First this way," I said, "and then this way." I showed her with a few cookies, and then let her go to work. With each cookie that I put on the sheets, I'd hear her say quietly, "First dis way, den dis way." She reminds me so much of myself at that age--sometimes it scares me! Because I know her spirit and her heart are probably very similar to mine. What a huge responsibility to guard and form them!
It's all about the simple things. Spending time with my little sweetie was wonderful! And what a good helper!
 |
| First this way, then that way. |
 |
| So yummy! |
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Less than two weeks after we were married, our lives were turned upside down. Though practically everyone else predicted it, we were shocked when we found out we were expecting a little honeymoon baby. Our swift entrance into parenthood thrilled us tremendously and scared us a little, too. But, he handled it with such trust.
But that was one of the reasons that I married him. I still see those reasons, every single day.
The tears he cried when they laid our first daughter into my arms. He stood back and watched as I wept and promised her I'd be a good mother. And then he held her and stared at her precious face for a long time. I treasure those photos. At home, he took her out to the living room and slept on the couch when I was so ill...and she was only two weeks old. He did all of her feedings, burped her, stayed up with her through colic. And never complained.
He played with her, idolized her. He would get on the floor and talk to her even when she was only a month old. Later, he became her jungle gym, letting her crawl and jump all over him. He still does that, only now he has two little ones climbing all over him.
He stood by me and supported me when we were surprised by another addition, only to lose him a few months later. He cried with me, held my hand, and prayed with me. And he never questioned me.
Then, he left, and she was here. I heard his smile--so audible--as he heard about her in Kuwait. He missed the whole pregnancy. Instead, he defended our country and family. Later, I found out he was keeping up with the pregnancy, reading weekly the progress our unborn child and I were making. He wasn't supposed to be there when she arrived. Somehow, he sacrificed so much and flew halfway around the world, arriving just in time. He named her and then he held her. And he fell in love all over again.
He insisted on doing most of the feedings the three days he was home. He fed and burped and changed diapers and then did it all over again. "You're going to be left with this," he said, "let me do it for now." What a man. What a father. He smiled and talked to her, holding her for hours.
And then he left again. So bravely. As I stood there and wept, so weak.
He came home and threw himself into loving them again. Picking up like he was never gone. And they fell in love with him all over again.
He is always doing and cleaning and going that extra mile. And I never realize until I go to do it myself. And it's done. With such love. He goes beyond what I would expect, because he loves me. He loves them. He's picked up the slack with the house and girls when I had to step back for a little while. And he never complained. When I felt like a failure, he insisted I was so needed. He encouraged me more, and loved me more.
He's so loving, so quiet. So strong, so brave. So firm, so dependable.
He's reminds me of St. Joseph.
I cannot imagine parenting with anyone else. Parenting without the balance and consistency he brings to our dynamic. The Faith and love he brings. He always inspires me to be better, sets a bar through his example that I constantly try to reach. He's so good.
I am so blessed to have him. The girls are so blessed to have such a wonderful father. God is so good to me.
Happy Father's Day, Richard. Your girls love you so much! Thank you for being such a great dad!
But that was one of the reasons that I married him. I still see those reasons, every single day.
The tears he cried when they laid our first daughter into my arms. He stood back and watched as I wept and promised her I'd be a good mother. And then he held her and stared at her precious face for a long time. I treasure those photos. At home, he took her out to the living room and slept on the couch when I was so ill...and she was only two weeks old. He did all of her feedings, burped her, stayed up with her through colic. And never complained.
He played with her, idolized her. He would get on the floor and talk to her even when she was only a month old. Later, he became her jungle gym, letting her crawl and jump all over him. He still does that, only now he has two little ones climbing all over him.
He stood by me and supported me when we were surprised by another addition, only to lose him a few months later. He cried with me, held my hand, and prayed with me. And he never questioned me.
Then, he left, and she was here. I heard his smile--so audible--as he heard about her in Kuwait. He missed the whole pregnancy. Instead, he defended our country and family. Later, I found out he was keeping up with the pregnancy, reading weekly the progress our unborn child and I were making. He wasn't supposed to be there when she arrived. Somehow, he sacrificed so much and flew halfway around the world, arriving just in time. He named her and then he held her. And he fell in love all over again.
He insisted on doing most of the feedings the three days he was home. He fed and burped and changed diapers and then did it all over again. "You're going to be left with this," he said, "let me do it for now." What a man. What a father. He smiled and talked to her, holding her for hours.
And then he left again. So bravely. As I stood there and wept, so weak.
He came home and threw himself into loving them again. Picking up like he was never gone. And they fell in love with him all over again.
He is always doing and cleaning and going that extra mile. And I never realize until I go to do it myself. And it's done. With such love. He goes beyond what I would expect, because he loves me. He loves them. He's picked up the slack with the house and girls when I had to step back for a little while. And he never complained. When I felt like a failure, he insisted I was so needed. He encouraged me more, and loved me more.
He's so loving, so quiet. So strong, so brave. So firm, so dependable.
He's reminds me of St. Joseph.
I cannot imagine parenting with anyone else. Parenting without the balance and consistency he brings to our dynamic. The Faith and love he brings. He always inspires me to be better, sets a bar through his example that I constantly try to reach. He's so good.
I am so blessed to have him. The girls are so blessed to have such a wonderful father. God is so good to me.
Happy Father's Day, Richard. Your girls love you so much! Thank you for being such a great dad!
Friday, June 14, 2013
He was with me from the beginning. Ever since we came into existence. For a long time, we were always in close proximity. Same home, same family, same school, and same grade. Always together. Always so close. Then, life moved on and took us in separate directions, as life does. But, the sixth sense we've always had stayed strong.
I have always known when something is wrong. I get this horrible, sickening sense that something is not right. That something bad has happened. Once, when I was a sophomore in college, and he said he had a horrible flu. He hadn't been able to get up for awhile. I just always knew. And it went both ways. He would call me, "Adrienne. Are you okay? I just have a bad feeling." And I would tell him the struggles that I was enduring. There has always been that connection.
I have seen him so happy. Many times When he met her our freshman year, he was like a schoolkid again. They dated and married. They were always doing things and making adventures. He loved her. But, she was very sick. And then one day, the feeling came to me. Something was bad wrong. She was sick. Very sick. For months, she fought, but she lost. And then I had to watch him grieve. It was horrible.
I saw him in the depths of darkness, the likes of which I could not understand. My heart ached. I encouraged him. And I prayed. So hard.
God, please give him someone new when he's ready. Someone special. Someone who can make him live again. Smile again. Be happy again.
He moved through darkness, struggling. For the first time, there was nothing I could do for him. And then I suffered my own horrible loss. Death is so cruel. And he and I stayed up for hours one night talking. He opened up to me about his own struggle with death, and I understood. Though the circumstances were different, there was so much we could understand.
A long time later, I skipped down the steps in my parents' house, but he didn't hear me. He was completely absorbed. I peered over his shoulder and saw it. Catholic Match. Before I could help it, I jumped on the couch next to him, grinning. "You weren't supposed to see" But, I smiled. "I kept telling you to get on! How long?" He had just registered within the week. I was thrilled. And nervous for him. Heaven only knows what a huge leap of faith that was for him.
I begged him to see her profile. He made me promise not to tell anyone and turned the computer to me. I read her profile. I was appalled. Everything was a perfect fit. And she was beautiful!
"If you don't marry her, I will kill you."
He laughed and told me to slow down. He was deciding if he was going to message her. I insisted that he do--you never know. And it can't hurt.
"And if you don't marry her, I will kill you."
He walked down the aisle to that woman on June 8th. Never have I seen him so happy--smiling so much! I wept through the Mass. Tears of joy. All I could keep thinking and whispering was, "Praise God. Thank you, God!" She is so thoughtful, so kind. And so funny! She fits in perfectly with our crazy family. And she took a broken and shattered heart, and made it whole again. She not just accepted his beautiful, broken story, but embraced it. Aided him through hurt, helped make him whole again. What a beautiful soul she is!
I wish them a future filled with as much joy and happiness as they felt on their wedding day. That the bliss lives on. I know that, when struggle of any kind inevitably arises, they are strong enough to prevail. Because they are strong. They are Faithful. And they put each other first.
God's stories for us are so beautiful. We can't see it amidst the darkness, when it swirls around us. But, He does answer prayers. Especially those prayers said in the darkest recesses of a twins sister's heart, a sister who sees a man who deserves another love story. A man who will make a phenomenal father, a wonderful husband, and needs that new beginning.
And so he has it. She has it. They have it. Love. Joy. God.
Thank you, Jesus. Praise God!
I have always known when something is wrong. I get this horrible, sickening sense that something is not right. That something bad has happened. Once, when I was a sophomore in college, and he said he had a horrible flu. He hadn't been able to get up for awhile. I just always knew. And it went both ways. He would call me, "Adrienne. Are you okay? I just have a bad feeling." And I would tell him the struggles that I was enduring. There has always been that connection.
I have seen him so happy. Many times When he met her our freshman year, he was like a schoolkid again. They dated and married. They were always doing things and making adventures. He loved her. But, she was very sick. And then one day, the feeling came to me. Something was bad wrong. She was sick. Very sick. For months, she fought, but she lost. And then I had to watch him grieve. It was horrible.
I saw him in the depths of darkness, the likes of which I could not understand. My heart ached. I encouraged him. And I prayed. So hard.
God, please give him someone new when he's ready. Someone special. Someone who can make him live again. Smile again. Be happy again.
He moved through darkness, struggling. For the first time, there was nothing I could do for him. And then I suffered my own horrible loss. Death is so cruel. And he and I stayed up for hours one night talking. He opened up to me about his own struggle with death, and I understood. Though the circumstances were different, there was so much we could understand.
A long time later, I skipped down the steps in my parents' house, but he didn't hear me. He was completely absorbed. I peered over his shoulder and saw it. Catholic Match. Before I could help it, I jumped on the couch next to him, grinning. "You weren't supposed to see" But, I smiled. "I kept telling you to get on! How long?" He had just registered within the week. I was thrilled. And nervous for him. Heaven only knows what a huge leap of faith that was for him.
I begged him to see her profile. He made me promise not to tell anyone and turned the computer to me. I read her profile. I was appalled. Everything was a perfect fit. And she was beautiful!
"If you don't marry her, I will kill you."
He laughed and told me to slow down. He was deciding if he was going to message her. I insisted that he do--you never know. And it can't hurt.
"And if you don't marry her, I will kill you."
He walked down the aisle to that woman on June 8th. Never have I seen him so happy--smiling so much! I wept through the Mass. Tears of joy. All I could keep thinking and whispering was, "Praise God. Thank you, God!" She is so thoughtful, so kind. And so funny! She fits in perfectly with our crazy family. And she took a broken and shattered heart, and made it whole again. She not just accepted his beautiful, broken story, but embraced it. Aided him through hurt, helped make him whole again. What a beautiful soul she is!
I wish them a future filled with as much joy and happiness as they felt on their wedding day. That the bliss lives on. I know that, when struggle of any kind inevitably arises, they are strong enough to prevail. Because they are strong. They are Faithful. And they put each other first.
God's stories for us are so beautiful. We can't see it amidst the darkness, when it swirls around us. But, He does answer prayers. Especially those prayers said in the darkest recesses of a twins sister's heart, a sister who sees a man who deserves another love story. A man who will make a phenomenal father, a wonderful husband, and needs that new beginning.
And so he has it. She has it. They have it. Love. Joy. God.
Thank you, Jesus. Praise God!
 |
| Look at that smile! |
Thursday, May 09, 2013
As I was surfing the internet tonight, I saw this posted on Facebook. I read the article and I have to say, the list actually irritated me.
Not funny.So much of that list That entire list is constructed purely from selfishness. And the language is atrocious. Lately, I feel like all I've seen is articles posted of people bemoaning their roles as parents. It's sickening. And makes me feel poorly represented. It bears noting that motherhood (and fatherhood) is not a station merely forced on someone. There's this prevailing attitude that parenthood makes a victim out of mothers and fathers. As a society, we've reduced this station to drudgery. We've forgotten the privilege and honor inherent in being mothers and fathers. An attitude like this is what fuels the articles like that above.
Sure, like this author, I wouldn't mind sleeping in for a few extra minutes on Mother's Day. But not to the detriment of my children or husband. That's about as far as our "lists" for Mother's Day match.
I actually secretly love Mother's Day. But not because all the attention is on me (I actually secretly hate that part). Rather, it's one of the few days in my busy life that I am actually allowed and encouraged to slow down and enjoy my children. Look, I don't need a gift (yes, I said that--and I mean it). I don't want a brunch with other women--I can have a "Girls' Night Out" any other day. Instead, I want to be trying to sleep in, and my little ones jump onto the bed and rouse me from my sleep and snuggle in next to me. I do want breakfast in bed, but only surrounded by my girls. I want to be unable to eat most of it because they are too busy picking the food up with their tiny, precious hands. I want jam or butter to drip onto the sheets, and for all of us to melt into giggles. I don't need presents. Just hugs. And prayers that I continue to strive to be as good a mother as I can be. Secretly, I would love to get plastic stringed necklaces and smeared, handprint cards (I *love* my girls' handprints). I want to relish every second with my tiny ones that day, and bask in the humbling honor with which God blessed me when He gave me my children.
I want to get all teary thinking of my own mother, who gave birth to and raised six amazing and faithful human beings. Who gave her all everyday making sure we were dressed sharply, surrounded by knowledge and imagination, and showered us with love only a mother can know. I want to sit next to her, and whisper my gratitude to her in a quiet moment. To let her know that I would not be half the mother I am if she had not relished in those messy breakfasts in bed, where she hardly ate anything. Had she not said yes each time to carrying another child within her. Had she not cherished the necklaces, the homemade cards, and simply the time with us. Had she not wiped bottoms for years, and mopped floors, cooked meals, and served us constantly.
No, save your selfish lists. I just want my children on Mother's Day...and my mother's beautiful and selfless example of motherhood.
Happy Mother's Day.
Not funny.
Sure, like this author, I wouldn't mind sleeping in for a few extra minutes on Mother's Day. But not to the detriment of my children or husband. That's about as far as our "lists" for Mother's Day match.
I actually secretly love Mother's Day. But not because all the attention is on me (I actually secretly hate that part). Rather, it's one of the few days in my busy life that I am actually allowed and encouraged to slow down and enjoy my children. Look, I don't need a gift (yes, I said that--and I mean it). I don't want a brunch with other women--I can have a "Girls' Night Out" any other day. Instead, I want to be trying to sleep in, and my little ones jump onto the bed and rouse me from my sleep and snuggle in next to me. I do want breakfast in bed, but only surrounded by my girls. I want to be unable to eat most of it because they are too busy picking the food up with their tiny, precious hands. I want jam or butter to drip onto the sheets, and for all of us to melt into giggles. I don't need presents. Just hugs. And prayers that I continue to strive to be as good a mother as I can be. Secretly, I would love to get plastic stringed necklaces and smeared, handprint cards (I *love* my girls' handprints). I want to relish every second with my tiny ones that day, and bask in the humbling honor with which God blessed me when He gave me my children.
No, save your selfish lists. I just want my children on Mother's Day...and my mother's beautiful and selfless example of motherhood.
Happy Mother's Day.
Wednesday, May 08, 2013
We were all sitting in the dining hall of San Antonio Military Medical Center (formerly BAMC) on Fort Sam. Mary was having her sweat collected for her Cystic Fibrosis testing. We were trying to eat and enjoy our lunch, but our hearts were heavy and fearful. My sweet girls talked together and played and laughed.
And then he walked through.
I confess, I nearly choked though praise God he didn't hear it. He sat down facing me further down the wall at a booth. I could see him squarely from my seat. And I tried so hard not to cry.
He was burned so badly there was nothing left of his face. Just a shell of his nose and holes for his eyes. His hands were only partially still there. He was tall. He stood tall.
And carried on.
I don't know who he was. I don't know how it happened, though I can only assume some sort of military service.
I do know that my two tiny precious girls, without being bidden, walked down to the man and said hi. Giggled. Waved.
And he smiled. And laughed.
They never noticed how different he was. Not even my three year old. I expected questions from her. Innocent questions. But she never asked. She just talked to him. His face blushed. Mary smiled her cheesy 18-month old smile over and over again.
They never saw what I saw. The pain. The loss. The scars.
They saw a human being. A man. They somehow sensed his need for joy. And they gave it to him.
Oh, that I could be a child in my heart again and do the same. My heart ached for the man. I was overjoyed that my girls filled his heart with happiness. Gave him love. Saw a man.
And valued the person.
And then he walked through.
I confess, I nearly choked though praise God he didn't hear it. He sat down facing me further down the wall at a booth. I could see him squarely from my seat. And I tried so hard not to cry.
He was burned so badly there was nothing left of his face. Just a shell of his nose and holes for his eyes. His hands were only partially still there. He was tall. He stood tall.
And carried on.
I don't know who he was. I don't know how it happened, though I can only assume some sort of military service.
I do know that my two tiny precious girls, without being bidden, walked down to the man and said hi. Giggled. Waved.
And he smiled. And laughed.
They never noticed how different he was. Not even my three year old. I expected questions from her. Innocent questions. But she never asked. She just talked to him. His face blushed. Mary smiled her cheesy 18-month old smile over and over again.
They never saw what I saw. The pain. The loss. The scars.
They saw a human being. A man. They somehow sensed his need for joy. And they gave it to him.
Oh, that I could be a child in my heart again and do the same. My heart ached for the man. I was overjoyed that my girls filled his heart with happiness. Gave him love. Saw a man.
And valued the person.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
One day, when my vocation as mother ends, I want to leave a quiet legacy behind me. I want a dog-eared prayer book on my nightstand, a well-worn set of rosary beads lying next to the lamp. I want my girls to look back and smile because of the love, patience, and faith exuded by their mother.
Most days I question if that's the legacy I'll leave. Just before Lent, I realized that, while I might excel in other areas as a mother (dancing around the living room singing children's songs while my girls giggle), I was definitely lacking in patience. I often hear others say, "Don't pray for patience, or you'll wish you hadn't!" So I didn't.
There are times when mothers don't have to yell. When a simple, kind word will do. A loving request does so much more than a firm command blanketed with a frown. Love and kindness are Patience's sister, I believe. And so, I've started doing it. That which I had been made to fear.
Lord, please give me patience right now.
And He's answered. Though I have much more work to do, I feel Him working in me. Infusing each word with so much love and comfort. Trying to show them the right way, with gentleness. Praying before each correction.
Mary of Jesus, be a mother to me now.
It's easy to get tired, worn down. Mothers give constantly and hardly get anything in return. It's a tiring, stressful, worrisome job that constantly asks us to empty ourselves completely even when we have nothing left to pour out. But, I wanted to do this, I needed to do this. I have always felt a calling to be a mother. I must carry on, even when the carrying is a burden. And I must do so, lovingly.
I never want my girls to look back and wish for more love, more kindness. I want them to have an example to inspire them. To aid them should they be called to this vocation. I want their hearts to be full and their souls to smile. Always. Someday, I want them to desire my prayer book, my rosary beads. Because I used them to be a better mother. I want them to pray with hope, love with kindness, and serve with patience. Because that's how Mom always was.
I want to deserve the statement, "I want to be just like you, Mommy."
Most days I question if that's the legacy I'll leave. Just before Lent, I realized that, while I might excel in other areas as a mother (dancing around the living room singing children's songs while my girls giggle), I was definitely lacking in patience. I often hear others say, "Don't pray for patience, or you'll wish you hadn't!" So I didn't.
There are times when mothers don't have to yell. When a simple, kind word will do. A loving request does so much more than a firm command blanketed with a frown. Love and kindness are Patience's sister, I believe. And so, I've started doing it. That which I had been made to fear.
Lord, please give me patience right now.
And He's answered. Though I have much more work to do, I feel Him working in me. Infusing each word with so much love and comfort. Trying to show them the right way, with gentleness. Praying before each correction.
Mary of Jesus, be a mother to me now.
It's easy to get tired, worn down. Mothers give constantly and hardly get anything in return. It's a tiring, stressful, worrisome job that constantly asks us to empty ourselves completely even when we have nothing left to pour out. But, I wanted to do this, I needed to do this. I have always felt a calling to be a mother. I must carry on, even when the carrying is a burden. And I must do so, lovingly.
I never want my girls to look back and wish for more love, more kindness. I want them to have an example to inspire them. To aid them should they be called to this vocation. I want their hearts to be full and their souls to smile. Always. Someday, I want them to desire my prayer book, my rosary beads. Because I used them to be a better mother. I want them to pray with hope, love with kindness, and serve with patience. Because that's how Mom always was.
I want to deserve the statement, "I want to be just like you, Mommy."
Thursday, April 11, 2013
A child--your child--is like an extension of yourself. Like your heart and soul exposed outside of you. Everything they hear, you feel. Everything they feel, you also feel. It's so amazing and so painful at the same time.
The first time it happened, I thought it was because she was sick. So congested. Could hardly breathe. That tiny body was up during the previous nights, coughing and hacking and crying. During the day, she could barely eat because she could not breathe. So, when her lips went black while we were eating breakfast, I was perplexed. But, I wasted no time and took her to the Emergency Room.
And then the Battle started.
After a couple of preliminary tests, they sent us home. Since then, we'd seen over five doctors and been to over ten appointments within the span of three weeks. They were testing for the unlikely, instead of testing for the more common. I grew more frustrated. I argued, begged for other testing. "It's not necessary" was all that I received. Meanwhile, her episodes continued.
Finally, last Wednesday morning, she slept until 9:30 through her sister screaming outside her door. I couldn't stand the worry any more. I slipped inside her room and nudged her. She finally woke. Within fifteen minutes, she was deathly pale, her lips turned black, and she was trembling from head to foot.
I was done.
I packed the girls up and we drove to the nearby Children's Hospital. They immediately admitted Mary and the continuous rounds of testing commenced. Two nights we were there. I have never known that sort of gripping anxiety before. At times, I didn't think I could get to my next breath, make to the next moment. Fear, worry, anxiety, and anger cropped up in me. My sweet Mary, too tiny to be wearing a hospital gown, was hooked up to all sorts of monitors, undergoing all sorts of tests. Waiting hours and hours for the results.
I threw myself into the only action that brought me peace. Prayer. And I prayed with all of my might. For my sweet little girl, for strength for my older daughter as she witnessed it all. For my husband, as he stayed strong, too. For peace, strength, and resilience for me.
Two days later, we were discharged with some suggestions, but no answers.
And so it continues. Both the search for answers and the episodes. I have my hunches. I maintain my strength. I continue to pray. And to fight. I feel the chronic worry. The what-if's if we don't get answers. I pray through them.
Nothing worries a mother like their child's health. No one has the strength or resilience like a mother. And so, as with everything else, Charlie Mike.
The first time it happened, I thought it was because she was sick. So congested. Could hardly breathe. That tiny body was up during the previous nights, coughing and hacking and crying. During the day, she could barely eat because she could not breathe. So, when her lips went black while we were eating breakfast, I was perplexed. But, I wasted no time and took her to the Emergency Room.
And then the Battle started.
After a couple of preliminary tests, they sent us home. Since then, we'd seen over five doctors and been to over ten appointments within the span of three weeks. They were testing for the unlikely, instead of testing for the more common. I grew more frustrated. I argued, begged for other testing. "It's not necessary" was all that I received. Meanwhile, her episodes continued.
Finally, last Wednesday morning, she slept until 9:30 through her sister screaming outside her door. I couldn't stand the worry any more. I slipped inside her room and nudged her. She finally woke. Within fifteen minutes, she was deathly pale, her lips turned black, and she was trembling from head to foot.
I was done.
I packed the girls up and we drove to the nearby Children's Hospital. They immediately admitted Mary and the continuous rounds of testing commenced. Two nights we were there. I have never known that sort of gripping anxiety before. At times, I didn't think I could get to my next breath, make to the next moment. Fear, worry, anxiety, and anger cropped up in me. My sweet Mary, too tiny to be wearing a hospital gown, was hooked up to all sorts of monitors, undergoing all sorts of tests. Waiting hours and hours for the results.
I threw myself into the only action that brought me peace. Prayer. And I prayed with all of my might. For my sweet little girl, for strength for my older daughter as she witnessed it all. For my husband, as he stayed strong, too. For peace, strength, and resilience for me.
Two days later, we were discharged with some suggestions, but no answers.
And so it continues. Both the search for answers and the episodes. I have my hunches. I maintain my strength. I continue to pray. And to fight. I feel the chronic worry. The what-if's if we don't get answers. I pray through them.
Nothing worries a mother like their child's health. No one has the strength or resilience like a mother. And so, as with everything else, Charlie Mike.
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Naptime's quiet veiled the house in that peace felt now only between one to three in the afternoon. I sat on the couch, preparing to fold clothes. I turned on the TV to ABC Family and the first statement heard in the quiet was,
"Remember how we decided to stop having sex?"
Seriously?
Angered, I turned the channel. This second show, I realized in about two minutes, was about a family who's daughter was pregnant and engaged...and only 15.
Lately, I've found fewer and fewer shows that I can watch with the girls in the room with me. It's now down to one. And it's one that has caused surprising debate.
19 Kids and Counting.
The entire family is devoutly religious. The women all wear skirts and both the mother of the 19 children (Michelle) and the bride of the oldest son (Anna) have decided to be open to children as they come. I can relate to several aspects of their lives.
But, I have realized lately how counter-cultural I am.
As my husband, two girls, and I meandered through Sam's Club last night, I stopped dead in my tracks. There stood a young girl, only about ten, with her father. She wore a very tight, short t-shirt with glitter and a flannel shirt over it, tied so that her midriff could still show. On the bottom, she wore fishnet hose...and that's it. Just fishnet hose.
I wept.
I wanted to take the young girl home with me, before it was too late. But, I think that it already is.
Innocence is dying. Becoming extinct.
I have read numerous articles and perused many websites blasting the Duggars and their lifestyle. How they "subject" their women, are irresponsible in their family planning decisions.
Had I walked up to the parents of that young girl last night and questioned their daughter's dress, they more than likely would have replied, "It's our choice. Mind your own business."
As I looked around Sam's Club, I realized how many girls were dressed so sexually. Young girls. Stomachs showing, shorts and jeans with holes, low-cut shirts. Why was no one upset about this? Why is it legitimate to allow young girls to walk around objectifying themselves?
Who is fighting for these young girls who are revealing their bodies to men of all ages? Who is fighting for them? No one. Because those people are too busy arguing that people like the Duggars are objectifying their own women.
I want to get rid of the television. So my daughters don't hear the sexuality, the violence, the language that could rob them of their peace and innocence. I want to teach my girls that they are beautiful children of God.
Yes. God.
That they are a gift. A beautiful gift. And, as a gift from God, they should keep their beauty wrapped and shielded. Because they are worthy of that.
I want to show all girls their beauty, their worth. That this worth is their gift, and they should shield it, too, because they deserve that.
But there are too many influences in these girls' lives saying the opposite. Nicki Manij shows them being beautiful means changing your hairstyle everyday to freakish colors and textures. Maria Carey wears revealing tops. Lady Gaga takes Nicki to a whole different level. Am I the only one who wonders what they really look like underneath all that artificial stuff?
Sadly, I cannot help that sweet girl at the store. I can't help any of the young girls out there. But, I can affect my little sphere. My sweet girls. I can keep them sweet and innocent and peaceful. I can set an example that is counter cultural. That beauty is not hair color or make up or bizarre or sexualized outfits. It goes deeper. Beauty is being themselves. And, oh, how truly and naturally beautiful my girls are!
"Remember how we decided to stop having sex?"
Seriously?
Angered, I turned the channel. This second show, I realized in about two minutes, was about a family who's daughter was pregnant and engaged...and only 15.
Lately, I've found fewer and fewer shows that I can watch with the girls in the room with me. It's now down to one. And it's one that has caused surprising debate.
19 Kids and Counting.
The entire family is devoutly religious. The women all wear skirts and both the mother of the 19 children (Michelle) and the bride of the oldest son (Anna) have decided to be open to children as they come. I can relate to several aspects of their lives.
But, I have realized lately how counter-cultural I am.
As my husband, two girls, and I meandered through Sam's Club last night, I stopped dead in my tracks. There stood a young girl, only about ten, with her father. She wore a very tight, short t-shirt with glitter and a flannel shirt over it, tied so that her midriff could still show. On the bottom, she wore fishnet hose...and that's it. Just fishnet hose.
I wept.
I wanted to take the young girl home with me, before it was too late. But, I think that it already is.
Innocence is dying. Becoming extinct.
I have read numerous articles and perused many websites blasting the Duggars and their lifestyle. How they "subject" their women, are irresponsible in their family planning decisions.
Had I walked up to the parents of that young girl last night and questioned their daughter's dress, they more than likely would have replied, "It's our choice. Mind your own business."
As I looked around Sam's Club, I realized how many girls were dressed so sexually. Young girls. Stomachs showing, shorts and jeans with holes, low-cut shirts. Why was no one upset about this? Why is it legitimate to allow young girls to walk around objectifying themselves?
Who is fighting for these young girls who are revealing their bodies to men of all ages? Who is fighting for them? No one. Because those people are too busy arguing that people like the Duggars are objectifying their own women.
I want to get rid of the television. So my daughters don't hear the sexuality, the violence, the language that could rob them of their peace and innocence. I want to teach my girls that they are beautiful children of God.
Yes. God.
That they are a gift. A beautiful gift. And, as a gift from God, they should keep their beauty wrapped and shielded. Because they are worthy of that.
I want to show all girls their beauty, their worth. That this worth is their gift, and they should shield it, too, because they deserve that.
But there are too many influences in these girls' lives saying the opposite. Nicki Manij shows them being beautiful means changing your hairstyle everyday to freakish colors and textures. Maria Carey wears revealing tops. Lady Gaga takes Nicki to a whole different level. Am I the only one who wonders what they really look like underneath all that artificial stuff?
Sadly, I cannot help that sweet girl at the store. I can't help any of the young girls out there. But, I can affect my little sphere. My sweet girls. I can keep them sweet and innocent and peaceful. I can set an example that is counter cultural. That beauty is not hair color or make up or bizarre or sexualized outfits. It goes deeper. Beauty is being themselves. And, oh, how truly and naturally beautiful my girls are!
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Four years...Almost
We are closing in on four years. Four years! It doesn't seem like that long, but it feels like that long. I remember the day I first saw him hop up the curb in front of my parents house picking me up for our first date, how he opened my car door and has everyday ever since. I remember him asking to hold my hand--the first hand that ever held mine, his lips the first to kiss mine. I remember watching him love his mother through nearly losing her. I remember the day he asked me to be his wife in a little Church on the east coast.
I remember him asking me if I could handle this life. The Army life.
I hesitated. I didn't want to sound prideful, sure of myself. I didn't want to sound like I hadn't thought of it. Because I had. A lot.
But, I knew I could. I knew that, no matter what this life would throw at me, I could handle it. Not because I was strong, but because God would make me strong.
The last four years have flown by. But, in some ways, it seems like we've been married longer. We have been tried and we have struggled. There has been much that has happened since we said I do. Since his fellow Soldiers welcomed me to the Army under their sabers. We've made a family, brought forth children. Beautiful children. We lost a piece of us, held each other through grief. We've laughed. We've moved. A lot. We've lived a year without each other. Grew while apart and then grew back together again. We left family, made another home. We've lived, we've survived--we've thrived. And through it all, we've loved.
People told us it would be hard. I see that now. And I know we have a great many more victories and struggles ahead of us in the next fifty plus years. But, I've had the honor to stand by a man who would leave everything behind to defend his country. A man who loves his girls so much he's willing to say good-bye to ensure our protection. A man who loves humbly, lives bravely. He's a man who puts God first and his family second. Always. He's proud of us. He cherishes us. He takes whatever God hands us; he has seen me at my worst and loved me through it. Watched me soar at my best and celebrated with me. He knows me and he loves me.
What an honor to be married to this caliber of a man. What a gift to stand by him. What a privilege to be his wife.
Four years. Such a short time to be so full of such blessings--both obvious and disguised. Four years wonderful years married to my husband, my best friend. To my Soldier. God is good.
I remember him asking me if I could handle this life. The Army life.
I hesitated. I didn't want to sound prideful, sure of myself. I didn't want to sound like I hadn't thought of it. Because I had. A lot.
But, I knew I could. I knew that, no matter what this life would throw at me, I could handle it. Not because I was strong, but because God would make me strong.
The last four years have flown by. But, in some ways, it seems like we've been married longer. We have been tried and we have struggled. There has been much that has happened since we said I do. Since his fellow Soldiers welcomed me to the Army under their sabers. We've made a family, brought forth children. Beautiful children. We lost a piece of us, held each other through grief. We've laughed. We've moved. A lot. We've lived a year without each other. Grew while apart and then grew back together again. We left family, made another home. We've lived, we've survived--we've thrived. And through it all, we've loved.
People told us it would be hard. I see that now. And I know we have a great many more victories and struggles ahead of us in the next fifty plus years. But, I've had the honor to stand by a man who would leave everything behind to defend his country. A man who loves his girls so much he's willing to say good-bye to ensure our protection. A man who loves humbly, lives bravely. He's a man who puts God first and his family second. Always. He's proud of us. He cherishes us. He takes whatever God hands us; he has seen me at my worst and loved me through it. Watched me soar at my best and celebrated with me. He knows me and he loves me.
What an honor to be married to this caliber of a man. What a gift to stand by him. What a privilege to be his wife.
Four years. Such a short time to be so full of such blessings--both obvious and disguised. Four years wonderful years married to my husband, my best friend. To my Soldier. God is good.
Thursday, December 06, 2012
Advent...prepping for Christmas
So, Christmas is my favorite time of year. When I say "Christmas," I also mean Advent. That's the time before Christmas were we wait in excitement and anticipation for our Lord's coming. Since we are religious, it's huge in our house--which makes Christmas that much more fun! So, here's what we are doing this Advent.
We are also doing an Advent Wreath and lighting it at night for dinner. Christmas movies, fires in the fireplace, and other festive activities are on the list, too. I love this time of year, and the anticipation for Christmas morning. The magic, the spirituality. It's so beautiful. Wishing you and yours a wonderful Season, too.
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| Of course, we are decorating the Christmas Tree. Some wait till Christmas Eve. I don't have that kind of patience. |
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| In all it's glory... |
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| And we are leaving time for some "horsing" around. |
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| Set up our Nativity, minus the Christ child. He appears on Christmas morning. |
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| Our Jesse Tree. This is our first year doing this. We read a series of stories from the Bible that lead up to the Creation story on Christmas day. That night ,we draw a picture on our sticker symbolizing the story and put it on the tree. I really like this. |
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| On top of our Christmas cards for friends and family, we sent off 54 Christmas cards to injured and deployed Soldiers. |
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| My sweet girl "helped" by drawing some pictures for the Soldiers. |
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| More decorating. |
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| St. Nick visited! (Got them out just in time.) |
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Real life is not scripted. True love is not planned.
That's what she's taught me. Every day. Ever since I found out about her being along for the ride. The time at which she decided she was ready to arrive. Her newborn days. Her learning and growing.
My sweet honeymoon baby.
We'd been married less than two weeks. It was so fast. Neither one of us expected it to happen so quickly. I think everyone else did.
I'd never been so scared in my life. I was going to bring a life into the word. Me. I was barely a wife, totally unprepared. For weeks, I was terrified. I worried of failing the baby, of not being a good mother. Eventually the fear dissipated, and I was so excited.
She took four days to come, despite the long labor. The night before her arrival, I stayed in my dark bedroom, praying she would come soon. Crying. Yes, the fear was definitely gone now.
After hours of labor and many tears, she finally was laid in my arms. And that memory is forever blazoned in my mind. Everything and everyone fell away. There was only my sweet daughter and me.
"Elizabeth Marie. That is what we will call you. And I shall love you everyday. I promise to try to be a good mother to you, because you deserve the best. I promise I'll never let you feel worthless. Because you are beautiful. And I will do my best to make you feel that way everyday. I love you."
I spoke the words to her, sobbing. Because as a chapter of expectancy and advent closed, another one opened previously uncharted for me. Of hard work. Gut wrenching emotion. Constantly going.
She would scream for at least eight hours everday. Screaming the likes of which I'd never heard. My emotions were intense. I had no idea what to do with this tiny life that seemed so miserable. Colic, my mother said. Oh, colic.
But, we prevailed. And we bonded. She was my first tiny love, my trial-by-fire introduction to motherhood. As I learned to navigate the waters of parenthood, my sweet one learned how to live. To roll over . Crawl. Walk. Talk.
Through her first cries, her first fever, her first tooth, I soothed her through her pain. Patted her back, held her close. And she learned to love back.
She was so tiny once. Yet, tonight, I held her head in my arms because that's all that fits these days, and watched her sleep. Her lips move slightly. Her chest heave through gentle breathing. Her curls awash on the pillow.
She's so big.
"Mommy. I love you!" She told me that today, and leaned in and gave me a kiss. And threw herself into my arms.
My sweet Elizabeth, you turn three tomorrow. We have learned so much together. Seen each other through a lot. Learned the ropes of life, watched each other grow. We survived a deployment. You and me.
My battle buddy.
So, I make the same promise to you today, as I did three years ago:
I promise to always love you. And to make sure I will always try so hard to show you how much you are loved. You are so beautiful. Inside and out. Never forget that. It is because of that that you deserve the stars and the moon. Always demand it. God loves you. Daddy loves you. And Mommy loves you. With all my heart.
Life is not scripted. It happens when we least expect it. And through that sudden surprise, comes the realization: Love--true love--is not planned. No. It is beautiful.
That's what she's taught me. Every day. Ever since I found out about her being along for the ride. The time at which she decided she was ready to arrive. Her newborn days. Her learning and growing.
My sweet honeymoon baby.
We'd been married less than two weeks. It was so fast. Neither one of us expected it to happen so quickly. I think everyone else did.
I'd never been so scared in my life. I was going to bring a life into the word. Me. I was barely a wife, totally unprepared. For weeks, I was terrified. I worried of failing the baby, of not being a good mother. Eventually the fear dissipated, and I was so excited.
She took four days to come, despite the long labor. The night before her arrival, I stayed in my dark bedroom, praying she would come soon. Crying. Yes, the fear was definitely gone now.
After hours of labor and many tears, she finally was laid in my arms. And that memory is forever blazoned in my mind. Everything and everyone fell away. There was only my sweet daughter and me.
"Elizabeth Marie. That is what we will call you. And I shall love you everyday. I promise to try to be a good mother to you, because you deserve the best. I promise I'll never let you feel worthless. Because you are beautiful. And I will do my best to make you feel that way everyday. I love you."
I spoke the words to her, sobbing. Because as a chapter of expectancy and advent closed, another one opened previously uncharted for me. Of hard work. Gut wrenching emotion. Constantly going.
She would scream for at least eight hours everday. Screaming the likes of which I'd never heard. My emotions were intense. I had no idea what to do with this tiny life that seemed so miserable. Colic, my mother said. Oh, colic.
But, we prevailed. And we bonded. She was my first tiny love, my trial-by-fire introduction to motherhood. As I learned to navigate the waters of parenthood, my sweet one learned how to live. To roll over . Crawl. Walk. Talk.
Through her first cries, her first fever, her first tooth, I soothed her through her pain. Patted her back, held her close. And she learned to love back.
She was so tiny once. Yet, tonight, I held her head in my arms because that's all that fits these days, and watched her sleep. Her lips move slightly. Her chest heave through gentle breathing. Her curls awash on the pillow.
She's so big.
"Mommy. I love you!" She told me that today, and leaned in and gave me a kiss. And threw herself into my arms.
My sweet Elizabeth, you turn three tomorrow. We have learned so much together. Seen each other through a lot. Learned the ropes of life, watched each other grow. We survived a deployment. You and me.
My battle buddy.
So, I make the same promise to you today, as I did three years ago:
I promise to always love you. And to make sure I will always try so hard to show you how much you are loved. You are so beautiful. Inside and out. Never forget that. It is because of that that you deserve the stars and the moon. Always demand it. God loves you. Daddy loves you. And Mommy loves you. With all my heart.
Life is not scripted. It happens when we least expect it. And through that sudden surprise, comes the realization: Love--true love--is not planned. No. It is beautiful.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Made-From-Scratch (for real) Pumpkin Pie
It's that time of year again that I LOVE!!! Fall--Halloween, Thanksgiving--and the days leading up to the kick of the Holidays (though, the "Holidays" for me start at the kickoff of the first College football game. Go ahead. Laugh. It's okay.)
So a few years ago, right before my eldest daughter turned one, I decided to make a real Pumpkin Pie. I wanted to really use every part of our Halloween pumpkins that weren't carved (therefore not all buggy). I *love* roasted pumpkin seeds, but hated the idea of throwing away a perfectly good pumpkin. I felt a challenge. So I did my homework.
I spent some time researching how to do a homemade pumpkin pie. Although that Fall the research was hard to come by, making a real pie wasn't as hard as I had thought. So, I took the recipe found on a website and made it. This year, I did it again, and tweaked the recipe. And I'm going to share them.
Make it. Trust me when I say you won't regret it!
So, the first year, I used a carving pumpkin. This year, I used some baking pumpkins, because supposedly they're sweeter. I think you can use either. I also reconfigured some ingredients and measurements and it was *so* much better this year.
Just in time for Thanksgiving, I wanted to share my recipe with you. Makes me want to write a cookbook.
Supplies:
Baking pumpkins (one will give about 3 cups of smashed pumpkin, which will make either two shallow pies, or one deep dish pie.)
Dutch oven with steamer basket
Potato masher
Ground ginger, nutmeg, and cloves (you can use pumpkin pie spice, but using separate ingredients like this will up the Wow Factor. Trust me.)
Cinnamon
Sugar, salt, eggs, evaporated milk
Brandy extract (Yes--this is the Epic Ingredient. Trust me.)
Recipe:
(So these instructions are for one shallow dish pie. If you want to make a deep dish, double the recipe. I just prefer shallow. Not that I am shallow...anyway, moving on.)
1 and 1/2 cups of mashed pumpkin
3/4 cup sugar
1 (can be heaping) teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 rounded teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon salt (I don't use any, so this is totally optional)
1/4 (slightly heaping) teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 (again, can be slightly heaping) ground cloves
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup evaporated milk
1 teaspoon Brandy extract
Graham cracker pie crust (makes it taste so awesome)
Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Mix pie ingredients in mixer, adding in order listed above. Bake 15 minutes (less if you are using a pre-made crust--more like five to ten minutes), then reduce temperature to 350 degrees and bake for 45 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean (I start checking at 35 to 40 minutes). Cool completely.
Enjoy. And Happy Thanksgiving!!!
(A special thanks to my husband for helping prep the pumpkin and doing the majority of the clean up, because he's awesome like that, and to my mom who helped configure measurements in exchange for being part of the taste-test crew.)
Leave a comment if you end up making it--I'd love to hear how it turned out!
So a few years ago, right before my eldest daughter turned one, I decided to make a real Pumpkin Pie. I wanted to really use every part of our Halloween pumpkins that weren't carved (therefore not all buggy). I *love* roasted pumpkin seeds, but hated the idea of throwing away a perfectly good pumpkin. I felt a challenge. So I did my homework.
I spent some time researching how to do a homemade pumpkin pie. Although that Fall the research was hard to come by, making a real pie wasn't as hard as I had thought. So, I took the recipe found on a website and made it. This year, I did it again, and tweaked the recipe. And I'm going to share them.
Make it. Trust me when I say you won't regret it!
So, the first year, I used a carving pumpkin. This year, I used some baking pumpkins, because supposedly they're sweeter. I think you can use either. I also reconfigured some ingredients and measurements and it was *so* much better this year.
Just in time for Thanksgiving, I wanted to share my recipe with you. Makes me want to write a cookbook.
Supplies:
Baking pumpkins (one will give about 3 cups of smashed pumpkin, which will make either two shallow pies, or one deep dish pie.)
Dutch oven with steamer basket
Potato masher
Ground ginger, nutmeg, and cloves (you can use pumpkin pie spice, but using separate ingredients like this will up the Wow Factor. Trust me.)
Cinnamon
Sugar, salt, eggs, evaporated milk
Brandy extract (Yes--this is the Epic Ingredient. Trust me.)
 |
| So, I cut up the pumpkins, (the spiders are my shout-out for Halloween...because this was supposed to go up sooner...yeah, oops.) cut out the seeds (roast them--you'll thank me for that, too!), and then I took pictures of my pretty, hollow pumpkins. |
 |
| Cut them up, leaving the rinds on, like you are going to make mashed potatoes. Put them in your steamer basket and fill the dutch oven with water underneath. Cover and bring to a boil. |
 |
| Let them boil until they are easy to pierce with a fork, once again like mashed potatoes. Mine took about an hour and a half (but, I had a lot of pumpkin and had to split it into two batches). |
 |
| When they are done, scoop the pumpkin off the rinds with a metal spoon or ice cream scoop. |
 | ||
| Mash with a potato masher. If you are lucky, you have cute and happy helper to assist with the mashing. After this, you can either split it up into three-cup batches and freeze, or continue with the recipe. Told you it was easy. And totally makes you feel all awesome and Pioneer-ish. |
Recipe:
(So these instructions are for one shallow dish pie. If you want to make a deep dish, double the recipe. I just prefer shallow. Not that I am shallow...anyway, moving on.)
1 and 1/2 cups of mashed pumpkin
3/4 cup sugar
1 (can be heaping) teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 rounded teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon salt (I don't use any, so this is totally optional)
1/4 (slightly heaping) teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 (again, can be slightly heaping) ground cloves
2 eggs, beaten
1 cup evaporated milk
1 teaspoon Brandy extract
Graham cracker pie crust (makes it taste so awesome)
Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Mix pie ingredients in mixer, adding in order listed above. Bake 15 minutes (less if you are using a pre-made crust--more like five to ten minutes), then reduce temperature to 350 degrees and bake for 45 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean (I start checking at 35 to 40 minutes). Cool completely.
Enjoy. And Happy Thanksgiving!!!
(A special thanks to my husband for helping prep the pumpkin and doing the majority of the clean up, because he's awesome like that, and to my mom who helped configure measurements in exchange for being part of the taste-test crew.)
Leave a comment if you end up making it--I'd love to hear how it turned out!
Saturday, November 03, 2012
I get it. I am a minority.
Especially in my generation.
I fell in love with my husband, realized he was going to aid me in being a better person, and...we married. We didn't move in together. We didn't date for years. The "furthest" we went were sweet kisses shared before saying good night. We walked down the aisle and, hand in hand, we stood before God and were married. Period.
And three weeks later, found out we were expecting. Honeymoon baby. She was born, and a few months later, we were pregnant again. We lost our sweet baby, but the following year, we were pregnant again. We have two daughters. We've been married three years.
I understand that others make very different decisions than us. I'm not going to take that on here. It's not my place. I just know that my husband and I made the decisions that were right for us. And that's all I have time to worry about--is us. I don't make comments about those decisions others. Because they are leading their lives. They are responsible for their decisions. I'm responsible for mine.
"Just make her walk! Put her down and make her walk!" The doctor was indeed telling me to force my less-than-one year old to walk so my carpal tunnel would heal. "Once you are done holding her, it will heal."
"I want more." She stared at me, mouth open wide. Then pretended not to hear.
Another doctor last week: "You want more?! How does your husband feel about that?!"
.....huh?!
Less than a week before my husband deployed two years ago, a woman was lecturing me in the pharmacy as I waited to pick up medicine for my sick daughter: "Oh! You don't want more! I just got rid of my only child--she's moved out. I'm so done! Time for me. Don't get pregnant before your husband leaves...it's just more stress. Just stick with one--you don't want a big family. Trust me."
Little did either of us know, but there was a tiny one already along for the ride.
I am constantly asked if I am done with the two girls, or if I am trying for a boy. Trying for a boy?! What in heaven's name is wrong with my girls. They are so beautiful and such a treasure! So many in my age bracket are putting off having children for years, and I am sad at the immense joy they are avoiding. The decision is theirs, but children are so wonderful.
Why is it that people are so shocked that I want more than two children? A big family? Why is this so shocking? I keep thinking I'll get to the point with my two that I'll see why others stopped. I haven't. I find my children addicting. So many kisses, hugs, funny comments. So many lessons to teach, days to fill. So much love to give.
Yes, there are days where I think I am going to rip my hair out. Where I feel victorious that we all made it through the day. But the days where I feel a joy grip my heart and manifests itself in a silent squeal because of my babies--those far outnumber the bad days. Sure, I have five minute showers, and some days don't get make up on till the afternoon nap. Yeah, I do not have nearly the time for myself as I used to. Yes, life has dealt us blows and challenges I prayed I'd never face. But when I look into the china-like faces of my daughters, when they ask for more hugs to stall bedtime, when they tell me I look "purdy" when I feel quite the opposite--these are the moments I live for.
Yes, I choose to make different decisions regarding my family planning. I don't put off tomorrow what can get done today, but it's so worth it.
I sometimes have a hard time recalling the song to which my husband and I shared our first dance. But, it's that last song, as the bubbles drifted around us from our guests, that comes back to me so quickly.
"I had a good life
Before you came
I had my friends and my freedom
I had my name
Still there was sorrow and emptiness
'Til you made me glad
Oh, in this love I found strength I never knew I had"
Freedom. That's it. Most define Freedom so differently than I. Freedom from responsibility, from people needing you, from constantly living for other people, free to take care of yourself. All the time. I smile--that's not my freedom. I am free to love, to grow a family, add more hearts and souls and feet and hands to my family. Free to spend a Saturday morning in the bed with my darling children, while they crawl all over us as we rise from our coma-like state. Free to give more hugs and kisses, more laughs and joy.
I am free.
And from that freedom, I garner strength. To face those blows and challenges I never thought I'd have the courage to face.
"And this love
Is like nothing I have ever known
Take my hand, love
I'm taking you home....
Where we can be with the ones who really care
Home, where we can grow together
Keep you in my heart forever "
Yes, I want more children--a big family. What, really, is so wrong about that? Because, I have found that the more I "chain myself" with the responsibility of family, the more free I truly am.
Taking You Home, copyright Don Henley
Especially in my generation.
I fell in love with my husband, realized he was going to aid me in being a better person, and...we married. We didn't move in together. We didn't date for years. The "furthest" we went were sweet kisses shared before saying good night. We walked down the aisle and, hand in hand, we stood before God and were married. Period.
And three weeks later, found out we were expecting. Honeymoon baby. She was born, and a few months later, we were pregnant again. We lost our sweet baby, but the following year, we were pregnant again. We have two daughters. We've been married three years.
I understand that others make very different decisions than us. I'm not going to take that on here. It's not my place. I just know that my husband and I made the decisions that were right for us. And that's all I have time to worry about--is us. I don't make comments about those decisions others. Because they are leading their lives. They are responsible for their decisions. I'm responsible for mine.
"Just make her walk! Put her down and make her walk!" The doctor was indeed telling me to force my less-than-one year old to walk so my carpal tunnel would heal. "Once you are done holding her, it will heal."
"I want more." She stared at me, mouth open wide. Then pretended not to hear.
Another doctor last week: "You want more?! How does your husband feel about that?!"
.....huh?!
Less than a week before my husband deployed two years ago, a woman was lecturing me in the pharmacy as I waited to pick up medicine for my sick daughter: "Oh! You don't want more! I just got rid of my only child--she's moved out. I'm so done! Time for me. Don't get pregnant before your husband leaves...it's just more stress. Just stick with one--you don't want a big family. Trust me."
Little did either of us know, but there was a tiny one already along for the ride.
I am constantly asked if I am done with the two girls, or if I am trying for a boy. Trying for a boy?! What in heaven's name is wrong with my girls. They are so beautiful and such a treasure! So many in my age bracket are putting off having children for years, and I am sad at the immense joy they are avoiding. The decision is theirs, but children are so wonderful.
Why is it that people are so shocked that I want more than two children? A big family? Why is this so shocking? I keep thinking I'll get to the point with my two that I'll see why others stopped. I haven't. I find my children addicting. So many kisses, hugs, funny comments. So many lessons to teach, days to fill. So much love to give.
Yes, there are days where I think I am going to rip my hair out. Where I feel victorious that we all made it through the day. But the days where I feel a joy grip my heart and manifests itself in a silent squeal because of my babies--those far outnumber the bad days. Sure, I have five minute showers, and some days don't get make up on till the afternoon nap. Yeah, I do not have nearly the time for myself as I used to. Yes, life has dealt us blows and challenges I prayed I'd never face. But when I look into the china-like faces of my daughters, when they ask for more hugs to stall bedtime, when they tell me I look "purdy" when I feel quite the opposite--these are the moments I live for.
Yes, I choose to make different decisions regarding my family planning. I don't put off tomorrow what can get done today, but it's so worth it.
I sometimes have a hard time recalling the song to which my husband and I shared our first dance. But, it's that last song, as the bubbles drifted around us from our guests, that comes back to me so quickly.
"I had a good life
Before you came
I had my friends and my freedom
I had my name
Still there was sorrow and emptiness
'Til you made me glad
Oh, in this love I found strength I never knew I had"
Freedom. That's it. Most define Freedom so differently than I. Freedom from responsibility, from people needing you, from constantly living for other people, free to take care of yourself. All the time. I smile--that's not my freedom. I am free to love, to grow a family, add more hearts and souls and feet and hands to my family. Free to spend a Saturday morning in the bed with my darling children, while they crawl all over us as we rise from our coma-like state. Free to give more hugs and kisses, more laughs and joy.
I am free.
And from that freedom, I garner strength. To face those blows and challenges I never thought I'd have the courage to face.
"And this love
Is like nothing I have ever known
Take my hand, love
I'm taking you home....
Where we can be with the ones who really care
Home, where we can grow together
Keep you in my heart forever "
Yes, I want more children--a big family. What, really, is so wrong about that? Because, I have found that the more I "chain myself" with the responsibility of family, the more free I truly am.
Taking You Home, copyright Don Henley
Monday, October 22, 2012
I don't pretend to understand it all. In some ways, I don't try. It's too much for my small, flawed mind and soul to understand. The hurt, hate, pain, suffering, death in our world.
Everyone will do it. Everyone will die.
The world is one large sphere of organized chaos. People working, loving, living, hurting, dying. Innocent, evil. Young, old. Rich, poor. I see a young woman, strong and with a big heart, battling cancer. She fights on, always smiling. I hear of a man, working through college, who ends his life. Mothers who bury their children. Babies who's lives are forcibly ended before they even full enter our world.
I don't understand. The terrible suffering.
It's in front of me--an element in the chaos none of us can escape.
But, I have to believe that, above that painful chaos--above the suffering masses--there is Him. I have to believe it. Because there has to be something Good, something True and Loving beyond this. There has to be a reason for it--a Good that will come out of it. Because I have seen great good arise from terrible moments.
In those moments of soul-shaking fear, physical or spiritual torment, or bodily pain; in those moments when we realize so coherently the end is imminent--for our loved ones or for us--He's there. Above it all.
Above the chaotically painful parallel, there is a constant, truly good Perpendicular.
And I believe that He hears me.
Because as long as I keep my eyes perpendicular, my heart and soul faced upward, the Perpendicular will always be in view, always be in my path. I must move forward through the parallel, trudge amongst the chaos, endure the pain and suffering. Because at some point, even for me, the Perpendicular will call.
I will have to walk my final steps through the fire of death.
But, my path will, God willing, still be up. Up. To Him.
The Curer, the Lover, the Constant Good.
The Perpendicular.
Everyone will do it. Everyone will die.
The world is one large sphere of organized chaos. People working, loving, living, hurting, dying. Innocent, evil. Young, old. Rich, poor. I see a young woman, strong and with a big heart, battling cancer. She fights on, always smiling. I hear of a man, working through college, who ends his life. Mothers who bury their children. Babies who's lives are forcibly ended before they even full enter our world.
I don't understand. The terrible suffering.
It's in front of me--an element in the chaos none of us can escape.
But, I have to believe that, above that painful chaos--above the suffering masses--there is Him. I have to believe it. Because there has to be something Good, something True and Loving beyond this. There has to be a reason for it--a Good that will come out of it. Because I have seen great good arise from terrible moments.
In those moments of soul-shaking fear, physical or spiritual torment, or bodily pain; in those moments when we realize so coherently the end is imminent--for our loved ones or for us--He's there. Above it all.
Above the chaotically painful parallel, there is a constant, truly good Perpendicular.
And I believe that He hears me.
Because as long as I keep my eyes perpendicular, my heart and soul faced upward, the Perpendicular will always be in view, always be in my path. I must move forward through the parallel, trudge amongst the chaos, endure the pain and suffering. Because at some point, even for me, the Perpendicular will call.
I will have to walk my final steps through the fire of death.
But, my path will, God willing, still be up. Up. To Him.
The Curer, the Lover, the Constant Good.
The Perpendicular.
Army Wife and the Pioneer Life
I have always admired the Pioneer life. Envied the Pioneer woman.
They literally built their lives. Their muscles and bones, heart and soul went
into producing every facet of their existence.
In this world today, with the instant gratification of smart phones,
internet, mass chain stores and restaurants on every corner, people can get
what they need in a matter of moments.
Furniture, rugs, plates, spoons, food.
Pick it up, swipe your card.
Done.
The pioneers made those items; often times, they produced
the materials that went into making those goods. Everything was precious and dear. Their food, rugs, furniture, clothes. They made them with their hands. Their bodies labored to produce the simplest
of things. I have found myself wishing
at times to return to that simpler time.
When people valued things and persons more. Worked harder for their happiness and
livelihood.
I see that Pioneer spirit in the Army family. In the Army wife. Army children. The Soldier offers his life, his body, heart
and soul for work that few volunteer to do.
The Army family ventures into new territory frequently, building a home
and a life in a place completely foreign to them. We throw our bodies into packing and
unpacking our lives, building a happy home.
Our ingenuity and steadfastness mirrors that of the pioneer family. Because it’s back-breaking work. There’s so much risk. Yet we continue. Because this is the life we somehow
love. The work, the toil. The heartache and risk. That’s not the overriding aspect of this
life. It’s the search for the right house—the one we’ll lovingly and carefully
make into a home, even for a few months.
It’s watching the movers unload furniture yet again, noting damage to
our precious pieces of “home”—and smiling anyway. It’s
setting up the furniture, knowing that slowly we are making a life for our
family—gathering the familiar.
Unpacking, setting up, replacing the old, falling in love with the
new. Making, working. Muscles, bones. Heart and soul.
I am a Pioneer. I
make our life. I make it over and
over. I find a house, make a home. I produce an environment of familiar with my
hands, working and toiling. I maintain
the home, when my Soldier is home and away.
I endure terrible hardships and great joy, all with a smile. I teach my children how to handle adversity,
overcome the odds. Even when it seems
impossible. I make our lives, produce a
positive existence. I turn to the other
pioneer women I know. My mother. My Army girlfriends. I seek advice, receive consolation. Laugh.
Live. Love. Survive.
Because despite the hardships—the irreparable damage of
furniture that held my babies, the destruction of precious items we worked hard
to obtain--, despite the heartache of leaving friends and family, locking our
old homes for the last time, this life is so worth it. Because we make our livelihood, our homes,
our lives. Over and over again. Beyond the friends and family, the numerous
homes, the frequent moves, the constant separation, there is a beauty that is
indescribable and a victory that is unmatchable.
Maybe it’s not envy I feel for the Pioneer life, for the
Pioneer woman. Perhaps it’s a camaraderie,
a solidarity with her spirit. A spirit
that has continued through the generations, rooting itself in a love of the
earth, a loyalty to our country, fidelity to our family. A determination to forge ahead. The way ahead may be unfamiliar, but we move
forward anyway. Because this is all we know. Because this is our lives.
This is our spirit.
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