Homecoming is...Complicated.

It's been two months to the day since Jake came home from Afghanistan, and I think I'm finally ready to write about our homecoming. Sound odd? Let me explain what I mean by that.

Ever watch those homecoming videos people post? Sometimes the news picks them up, sometimes they're just floating around out in the YouTubesphere. They're always beautiful, tearful, and joyous. I'm pretty sure I've never made it through one dry-eyed. For a split second, anyone watching those videos can catch a glimpse of what it's like to be a military family, welcoming home their loved one, safe and sound. It's really beautiful, and for a nation generally removed from military life, it's also really important.

Here's the problem with those videos, though. Watching them is like getting the Disney princess movie version of military life--a little adversity, a race to the "happily ever after," followed by "The End." But every adult watching the movie knows "The End" is not really where the story stops, and "happily ever after" is not quite what it looks like in the movies. So it goes with reintegration after deployment.

You all read about Howie and my harrowing journey to welcome Jake home. And any of you connected with me on Facebook saw the album of our homecoming, filled with beautiful pictures by fellow military spouse Rachel Spinuzzi. It was amazing, really. And there was laughter and tears of joy, lots of hugs, and all of the things you would expect from the reunion of a family long-separated. And in case you missed it, I included it here:

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Our homecoming happened around midnight on a Wednesday, so in addition to the joy there was also exhaustion, loading and unloading bags and bags of gear in the dark, and a little person so far beyond his bedtime he was going to go nuclear any minute. Still we were so thrilled to see each other we took it in stride.

Jake didn't have a place at Ft. Riley yet, so he came home to a hotel; the room was nice, and the hotel had a pool, so that was okay. It just meant that later Jake would have to find a place to truly unpack and settle. Still thrilled to be together--home is where the heart is.

Then one of my partners started calling and emailing incessantly with work that could easily have waited until I got home, but that she insisted had to be done immediately, wherever I was. Of the two days we spent in Manhattan, I spent over half of it working. But Jake hadn't seen Howie in ten months, and, again, there was a pool. So father-son time would be on the menu and that's still okay. We're still thrilled. Even if we're a little annoyed that work is taking mom away again.

On Friday, we drove to Kansas City to spend a fun weekend. It's actually a really great city for families, and we always have a good time. We took Howie to T-Rex Cafe for a late birthday celebration.

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Howie was in the worst mood, though, and behaved horribly while we were there. And that's when we started to see the shine fade off of the "just thrilled to be together." Jake hadn’t dealt with a child's willfulness in ten months, and had very little patience for it. 

Lunch set the tone for the rest of the day--as often happens with a cranky little person--and by the time we were headed to dinner at Fritz's Railroad, we've all just about had it.

I mean, we're at a restaurant where you dial your food up on a vintage telephone, and it's delivered via miniature locomotive, and still it's a struggle to have fun. Fortunately, as dinner went on things relaxed. We got ice cream afterward and by that point all was right again. 

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Saturday was a new day, and an exciting one for Howie. Kansas City, for him, means one thing—Legoland.  We got there early to participate in Legoland’s Easter egg hunt, and Howie was thrilled.  But it took him about five minutes to completely forget about the egg hunt—too much Lego fun to be had.  He road rides, built race cars, and even bogarted a guy’s attempts to build a Lego Eiffel Tower.  And Daddy let Howie pick out a Lego airplane from the store for his birthday.  

Howie had so much fun that he didn’t want to leave.  Which resulted in more fits and the stress that goes with it. Fortunately, by the time we got to the Crayola Café for lunch he’d calmed down.  He met the Easter Bunny and got some chocolate, then suddenly all was right with the world.  Because chocolate.

After nap time, we went to Kansas City’s Grand Central Station—a truly beautiful building—to check out the museums it houses.  We visited their miniature train exhibit (FREE to the public), and Howie loved it.  When it closed, we took the bridge over the train depot and found a great German Biergarten where we had a lovely dinner.  Howie and Jake capped the day off by building the Lego airplane.

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Sunday morning, we went back to Grand Central Station to have brunch at a great old restaurant for Easter.  And because we were there, of course we hit the miniature train exhibit again.  I have a feeling that it will be another required stop on Kansas City trips from now on.

Howie took a quick nap, then we went to see Disney’s Bears Movie, which we all really liked. The theater we found was amazing, and every seat was a recliner.  An adjustable recliner.  Which Howie played with throughout the movie.  It drove Jake nuts, and probably would have really annoyed other people too, but fortunately there was no one else in our row.  After the movie we stumbled upon another (FREE) miniature train exhibit, which we checked out before Jake took us to the airport.

So if you’re counting, that means we were together for five days.  After ten months apart.  Yeah.

Parting ways at the airport was downright excruciating.  Howie was sad; I was heartbroken. It was not enough.  Not enough to make up for lost time.  Not enough time to process.  Not enough time to (try and) ease back into a routine, or get used to each other again.  Heck, to get to know each other again. No matter how you slice it, not nearly enough.

Homecoming isn’t “happily ever after.”  I think for most military families, homecoming is catharsis.  It’s finally being able to lay down the burden of constant fear for our soldiers, our families, our households, and our sanity.  It’s like exhaling after holding your breath for a long time. It’s ‘I’m no longer solely responsible for whether my family is okay or not.’

But homecoming is catharsis only for a moment, and then it’s the beginning of a long process. “Reintegration” is what we call it. Really it’s rebuilding families, marriages, relationships between parents and children. It’s undoing the months of independence necessary to weather deployment, to put a family unit back together.

For remote families like mine, it’s reintegration-interrupted. It’s months of critical family-building work crammed into the days we can snatch here and there to be together, basically starting over again every time we reunite. It's frustrating, sometimes disheartening, and sometimes a little scary. 

And for us, it's a work in progress. Probably, that's why it took so long for me to write about it--we're all still processing. But certainly, that's why any of you who have asked about homecoming, and how thrilled we are to finally be back together, have gotten a mixed reaction from me.

Don't let that stop you from asking. Questions like that may be hard to answer because, well, it's complicated. But it shows you care, and military families really appreciate knowing that people see them, and care, and are thinking about them, and rejoice with them. Honestly, having so many of you rejoicing for us gives us room to sort out the rest.

I Hate that Truck

Update (8/26/14): I'm thrilled to report that the cursed truck has now been replaced with a new (hopefully less cursed) truck. The replacement was coupled with the following, very sweet, admission-against-interest for which I love him dearly, by one Jake Hicks:

"You were right, love. That truck was a bad call. I'm sorry you had to deal with my mistake."

I am therefore officially vindicated.

Have you ever hated an inanimate object? I don’t know what it is about my husband’s vehicles, but they seem to war against me in unexpected and ever more maddening ways.

When Jake deployed to Afghanistan, he decided to sell his Jetta rather than let it sit for ten months. Jake’s brother Daniel was moving to Houston and in need of a car, so it actually worked out really well.

I knew that meant one of the first orders of business when Jake got back home was going to be finding a vehicle. He’d been saying for years that he wanted a truck, and now he was going to get one.  I figured that Jake would come home and then we’d go test drive some options in Kansas City, where we typically spend our time together when Jake is stateside.

But Jake had other plans. One morning, I woke up to a text message that Jake had purchased a truck on eBay while I was sleeping.  Oh geez. And I worry about buying clothes online!

Since he was gone, Jake needed me to reach out to the dealer, take a look at the truck, and complete the transaction.  He chose a truck in Houston because he was trying to make things easy on me. Which, as you will see, is incredibly ironic.

I made an appointment to meet with the dealer two days later to inspect the truck. I have to admit, it is a nice-looking vehicle.  But when the dealer went to start the truck, he had a little difficulty.  He was surprised and told me that the truck had been fine so far. He agreed to have the local Chevy dealer look into the issue and see what caused the problem.  Three days later, the fuel filter, casing, and sensor had been changed. I went to see the truck again, started it several times, and it seemed to be fine.

So I finalized the paperwork for the truck on a Friday, and then drove it to pick Howie up from school.  When Howie and I got back to the truck, the valet told me that it wouldn’t start.  Seriously.

I eventually got the truck started and drove it to Autozone to have the batteries tested.  The technician said that the batteries were fine, though, so we drove home while I made an appointment with the Chevy dealer near my home for Monday.

I drove the truck to breakfast and to the grocery store on Saturday with no issue, so I decided to drive it to church on Sunday. I usually drive a tiny car, and so I was trying to get used to the giant truck before I had to take it to Jake in Kansas.

The truck started fine Sunday morning for church, but after church it wouldn’t start at all.  Several of the men tried to help me figure out how to get it started, but with no luck.  I wound up having to send Howie home with friends and have the truck towed.  And since the dealer is closed on Sunday, I had to have it towed home, then towed again on Monday morning when it still wouldn’t start.

The Chevy dealer near my home looked at the truck and found several issues. A hose needed replacing, and a valve was leaking. The dealer replaced both, and then I picked it up.  That same evening, I drove it to a Leadership Houston meeting in South Houston. I parked horribly at the meeting—I can’t drive a giant truck—and when I went to start it and repark, it wouldn’t start. You’ve got to be kidding me!!

What I usually drive. "Small Car Only" parking was made for this car.

I went to my meeting and, thank God, three hours later I was able to start it to get home.  And then again the following morning to take it right back to the Chevy dealer.

Meanwhile, I contacted the seller to tell him what’s going on, and how extremely displeased I am with the vehicle. Not surprisingly, he didn’t care. When you buy a vehicle as-is, there’s not a lot you can make a seller do to fix problems you find later. I have sent a strongly worded letter to eBay about the seller, however, and I hope that future buyers are protected from these problems.

Eventually the Chevy dealer got back to me with a further diagnosis: the batteries are no good. WHAT?!? Thanks for nothing Autozone!

Fortunately, because it was an issue that they should have caught in the previous visit, they didn’t charge me for the labor, and gave me a deep discount on the batteries.

The Chevy dealer told me that eventually the fuel injectors and/or fuel pump would need replacing on the truck, but since it wasn’t an immediate issue and we’d already sunk over $3,000 into the thing, I passed for now.  Or rather Jake did. By that point, he started saying things like: 

"I bet it was just the batteries all along, and these guys are jerking you around because you don’t know any better.” 

Nice, hon.

By this point, I’m extremely nervous about the prospect of driving this stinking truck across country.  I tell Jake I think maybe I should fly instead (even bought refundable tickets), but he was adamant that the truck—which he’d never seen but in true guy fashion had decided was only suffering from user error—would get me to Kansas. He said:

“Worst case scenario, if you get stranded, just leave the truck and drive the rest of the way in a rental.” 

You can imagine how well I took that.

But I was not going to argue with my husband in a warzone about this anymore. I loaded up the truck and started driving across country with Howie and all of our stuff.

It’s a long drive from Houston to Kansas. I planned to stop in Dallas for gas in the early afternoon, then continue to Oklahoma City to stay the night and drive the rest of the way the following morning.

Howie, slap-happy at the end of our trip.

We drove to Dallas through pouring rain (how I learned the truck also needed new windshield wipers; sigh), and got to a gas station around 2pm.  We filled up, grabbed some snacks, Howie had a potty break, and we got back in the truck. And it wouldn’t start. I tried half a dozen times with no luck.  I took Howie back inside the gas station, which fortunately had a McDonald’s in it. We had happy meals and watched a movie on the iPad, hoping that cooling off the engine would help.

Ninety minutes later, the truck finally started and we drove to Oklahoma City.  But we missed our “early afternoon” window and wound up stuck in Metroplex rush hour traffic.  Ugh. Fortunately, Howie was a trooper about it, and we made it to OKC. Eventually.

The next morning, the truck started and we got on the road, but we needed gas. I stopped at a Love’s along the highway for gas, but I parked on the wrong side of the pump (because my gas tank and Jake’s are on opposite sides of the vehicle).  When I got in the truck to move it, it wouldn’t start.

Dozens of attempts, three mechanics, an adjuster, and a well-meaning elderly man later, no one can get the truck started. Howie and I go inside and find a table where we can kill some time, hoping that the truck will work later.  

The only bright spot in an otherwise horrendous ordeal was how awesome the people at Love’s were. They were very kind and helpful, they gave Howie fresh baked cookies to eat while we waited, and regularly checked on us to make sure we had everything we needed.  I could not have been luckier in the place that I was stuck. Or in the fact that my iPad is chock full of Pixar movies.

Three hours, several good Samaritans, and countless attempts later, I gave up and called a tow truck. The adjuster helped me locate the nearest dealer, and a rental car company.

I was working on getting Howie’s carseat installed in the cab of the tow truck when, wonder of wonders, the tow truck driver got Jake’s truck started.  I just threw my hands up in the air.

I knew I lacked the gas to make it to Manhattan, Kansas, so I found myself asking:

“so if I fill up with the truck running, what’s the likelihood it will actually blow up?”

“Ma’am, you’re driving a diesel; it’s not going to blow up,” 

said the tow truck guy, more than a little incredulously.  I confess, in Wichita I tested this advice.  I'm pleased to report we did not explode.

I made it to Manhattan and drove straight to the airport, abandoning the truck for a rental car.  Hours later we were finally united with Jake (more to come on that), and I recounted the whole story to him.  The next morning, he wanted to go to the airport and check out the truck.  When we got there, the truck started for him right away.

And it has started for him every time since. Every. Single. Time.

Of course it has. 

I hate that truck.

My Little Trooper

When I look at this picture, my heart warms and breaks all at the same time. It was taken during my Army Spouse of the Year photo shoot several weeks ago. We had just come from a park, where Howie was super happy (see yesterday's photo), to the U.S. Army Reserve Airfield in Conroe, where he certainly was not. 

It really took me off guard. Howie loves helicopters, and always loves visiting Jake at work. I thought for sure that he would be happy to be at an airfield again for the first time in months. I was wrong. 

Airfields mean "Daddy," and Daddy wasn't there. I had prepared Howie for this fact, but when the truth truly set in, I could actually see the heartbreak wash across his face. He didn't want to be there without his Dad. He hugged his Daddy Doll tight, leaned into me, and let the tears roll. Such is the life of my Little Trooper. 

You heard from me yesterday about Howie's resilience (in spite of my own shortcomings). But since April is the Month of the Military Child, let me tell you just how strong this Little Trooper really is.

For all of his four years on this earth, Howie has been a geobach kid: Jake has always been stationed away from us. Howie has never known a time when he could consistently come home from school and find his Dad waiting there. Normal is not having Daddy there to help him get ready for school or church, or to tuck him in at the end of the day. Ordinary is Daddy not being able to make school functions, or take Howie to friends' birthday parties. Typical is telling Daddy after the fact when Howie gets to do something cool.

This year with a deployment has been especially hard. But long before Howie could tell you what "deployment" means--and boy can he! Just ask him!--he understood what sacrifice meant. It meant that Daddy was working to protect everybody, and that means having to be away from us. It meant we can be sad when we have to say good-bye, yet again, or upset about driving for hours just to be together, yet again, but that it would happen. Daddy loves us, but right now he doesn't belong to us. Howie has known this his entire life.

Until Howie was two, Jake was stationed at Ft. Polk in Louisiana. It's about three hours from Houston, and so every Friday we would make the drive there, or he would make the drive here, so that we could spend the weekend together. If you do the math, that means that in each of those two years Howie spent less than a third of his time--about 120 days--with his Dad. Howie hated Sunday good-byes, but honestly it shocked me just how young he was when he picked up on "Daddy Math"--he learned to count to five so that he could count down the "in between" days. 

"Only four days, Mommy!" 

"Only three days, Mommy!" 

I would smile and count with him, even as my heart ached at the percentage of time that was "only" in the way of being together. He was wishing away his littleness. So was I sometimes, and I hated it. I still hate it.

At the end of 2012, Jake was transferred to Ft. Riley, Kansas. Now, Daddy is a three hour flight, plus a two hour drive away. We changed from an every weekend family, to a twice-a-month family. About five days out of every thirty between Christmas of 2012 and July of 2013 belonged to us. Except in May, when pre-deployment training meant we didn't see each other at all. 

Howie can't count a month's worth of days, and had a very hard time at first. He was frustrated, and didn't understand why Daddy Math was failing him. Why "Friday" no longer meant our family would be together. Howie started asking me which were "Daddy Fridays" and which were "not Daddy Fridays." In a week with a "Daddy Friday," he would do Daddy Math. But he decided that he didn't like "not Daddy Fridays," so he started asking me about Mommy Dates instead. 

"Mommy, is it a Daddy Friday this week? Or a Mommy Date this week?"

A shift in thinking. I could not believe my little boy's wisdom, and willingness to take Monty Python's advice about the bright side. He could be sad Daddy wasn't there, but he'd rather be happy that Mommy is. I never thought I would learn so much about perspective from my little person.

In July 2013, Jake deployed to Afghanistan, and yet again Howie had to adapt. No Daddy Fridays--no Daddy at all. For 260 days, through Thanksgiving and Christmas, New Years, and birthdays, Daddy had to be "far away in Gas Can, helping people." And Daddy "can't come home until he finishes helping people."  So Howie would explain his life to people who asked.

There were times filled with lots of talking through questions, and lots of tearful hugs. It was hard to watch Howie miss his Dad so much, even as I too was missing him. But Howie amazed me again with his ability to adapt. "Daddy is a hero,"  he asserted, "and heroes have to go far away sometimes, even when they don't want to, because it's important to take care of people."  He loves Superheroes, and he decided that Afghanistan must be, like Superman's home planet or Green Lantern's planet, very far away. One time he told me:

"we're okay, Mommy, that's why Daddy can help other people. Because we're okay." 

Floored. Sometimes, the kid has ten times my emotional maturity. Or more likely, he has his Dad's servant heart and desire to help other people.

For months he relished the Skype dates and occasional cards from Jake, and loved making boxes to send Daddy; he would have conversations with his Dad on his play telephone, and occasionally I'd catch him kissing Jake's picture with a quiet "I miss you!"  He told me stories about what Daddy must be doing in 'Gas Can,' and made plans for what they would do together when Daddy came home.

What I never said, and what he never would have understood, is that homecomings, joyous as they are, are fleeting for a geobach family. It's days together after months apart, and then it's right back to being apart.

I haven't even tried explaining that to him. I don't want him thinking about the next good-bye, or the many that will follow after that.

I wish I could make it so that my sweet baby boy never had to say good-bye ever again. I wish I could make that huge empty space that so frequently finds its way into our family go away forever. But I can't. No military family can; "mission first" is the life we live. Military kids are resilient because they have to be; they have no choice.

What's incredible is just how resilient they are. Over 99.5% of American adults choose not to serve and make the sacrifices that these kids are called to make, that Howie makes. Yet they just do it, and often better than the adults do! Awe-inspiring is what that is.

By the time Howie turns five next year, our journey with the military will be over, and we will finally be together. No more Daddy Math, or Daddy Fridays; they'll be replaced with Daddy Everydays, and I can't wait! And Howie is so young that Daddy Everydays will quickly become his new normal--when he's older he may not even remember what it was like to always be apart; how much he had to give up; how often we had to say good-byes or how much his Daddy had to miss.

He'll never know just how tiny he was when he learned to be brave, and put this whole country's needs in front of his own.

But I will remember. My Little Trooper is one of the strongest people I know.

No Kind of Superhero

"Mommy, Green Lantern used to be a soldier, like Daddy."

"And Green Lantern is a pilot, like Daddy."

"And Green Lantern goes to far away places to help people, like Daddy."

"So, Daddy can't be Superman, Mommy. Because he's Green Lantern!"

So went the conversation with my son on the way to school last Friday. I smiled as I listened to the three-year-old analytics that went into deciding precisely where in the great pantheon of superheroes my husband fit. Sound logic, kiddo, I thought as I mulled his explanation, which was far more detailed than I would have expected. Of course, he then proclaimed himself Superman. Howie alternates between Superman and the Flash.

It's actually one of his favorite games to play, assigning roles from books and movies to his real-life cast of characters, and he especially likes to pretend we are all superheroes. Most often, he tells me I'm Elastigirl, which is actually a pretty fitting description: a mom, stretched in many different directions, trying to figure out how to stretch just a little bit further.

Honestly, I think Elastigirl is one of the better metaphors out there for moms in general.

And more honestly, when we play Howie's game, I'm usually thinking, with a chuckle: I'm no kind of superhero, kiddo.

*********

A few weeks ago, I was named Army Spouse of the Year, which is HUGE and AMAZING and I got so many messages of congratulations and encouragement from all of you. It's really incredible, and I'm so excited. My work for military families has really helped my heart and kept me sane these many months with Jake away, and I'm so excited for the opportunities this coming year will bring me!

But the week after the Big Announcement, by contrast, I wrote a far less chipper post about another major milestone: 200 days of deployment. I have to tell you, the response I got to that post might have been even more overwhelming, and even more encouraging.

I realized, by talking to many of you, that sometimes we need reminding of what's true--no one has it all together all the time. Everyone struggles, even when we don't see it; even when it's not apparent on the surface; even when amazing things are happening; even when it looks like they've got it all figured out.

So it's OK that I'm no kind of superhero? 

Oh good, because honestly I had no idea how I was going to live up to the hype!

Most of the time lately I feel like I'm just getting by. I have had far more "sheer force of will" days than I would like. You know, the kind of days where everything is harder than it should be? And you just want to throw your hands up in frustration? Those days.

Last week I avoided my blog, partly because of the No Dumps Day Rule, and partly because it's just that time in a deployment. I've hit the wall. Again. We are nearing the end, but still have several weeks to go. That makes every day longer. We are almost back together, soon we will be; but frankly, soon seems really really far off. And suddenly Jake coming home is all anyone wants to talk about.

I am starting to (frequently) hear "Oh you must be so grateful he will be home soon!" While that's true, it's the last thing I want to hear.

Really that just reminds me of how long we've been apart!

He's not home yet; don't jinx it! 

Stop saying "soon" because my kid thinks "soon" means "tomorrow!"

These are the things I think to myself. Then I feel guilty for not being grateful and resolve to change my ways...until the next time the conversation pops up and, like a reflex, I'm wistful once again. It's a vicious cycle, the "I should be happy" cycle. Left to my own devices, I might just get stuck in it.

That's why we need each other: strength in numbers, right? Sometimes we need support, and sometimes we just need someone to tell us "snap out of it!" A stiff drink or a swift kick in the pants, eh? Justice League, Avengers, Incredibles--even superheroes have figured out that they're better in teams, just as much to push each other as to work together!

Or, better yet, communities. Because communities don't just pool strengths; they also bond and learn and grow through weaknesses. Communities recognize that strengths make you formidable, but struggles and trials make you relatable.

I've been very grateful for my community lately; it's been an incredible place for me to draw strength from. And I really hope sharing my struggles gives a little something back. I hope what it shows is that you can do some real good, even when you don't have it all together. Maybe especially then.

Hitting the Wall

How Howie is counting down the days...

Today marks Day 200 of our deployment. Two. Hundred. 

That's 200 days since the last time we were all together in one place. 200 days since I held my husband's hand, 200 days since he hugged our sweet baby. 200 days.

The truth is, it has gone by quicker than I imagined that it would. But I guess that should come as no surprise to anyone who knows how busy the past few months have been for me.  Busy With Purpose has certainly been helping me stay sane.

But on the other hand, there have been heartbreaking moments along the way, and they seem to be increasing in frequency the further we get away from the last time we were together.

In some ways we are lucky. It's an odd thing to say about being a geobach family, but having a little person already used to technology as a primary communication tool with his father has been a huge blessing. I got by quite a bit longer than many of my friends before Howie really started missing his Daddy. 

But we are definitely there now. My sweet boy is counting down the days to his birthday, not because he's excited about his birthday, but because he knows his birthday means Daddy is coming home soon. More than once, we've asked him what he wants for his birthday, and all he ever says is "Daddy at my party." It's gut-wrenching to have to explain impossibility to a three-year-old.

One especially bad day last week, a friend reminded me that this is around the time when people usually hit the wall in deployments. That may be. But honestly, I feel like I've hit that wall over and over again. It feels like maybe I'm the ball in a racquetball game--sometimes flying, sometimes slamming into a hard surface at break-neck speeds.

Howie calling Daddy on the Arboretum Tree Phone

It's not that these 200 days have been all bad. In fact, some of them have been downright amazing! It's just that there's a piece missing; so the highs aren't as high as they could be, and the lows are way lower than they otherwise would be. It's been a lot to adjust to for me, and for Howie.

200 days. That means now we are on the downward slope, with more days behind us than in front. Some days that's a consolation, and some days it just makes me profoundly sad about how much has happened in those 200 days without Jake. 

Mostly, I'm just trying hard to focus on the now. Thinking too far ahead, getting really excited, just makes the days feel slower. I have a feeling, though, that being rational with myself is going to get a lot harder as the day gets closer when Jake will be home.  I can see school girl giddiness on the horizon already. So it's a really good thing I have so much to keep me busy, or I'd probably obsess over that horizon constantly.

At night before bed, Howie snuggles up with me and tells me that  when Jake comes home "I'm going to give Daddy all the kisses, Mommy!"  I squeeze him tight, kiss him on the head, and think to myself "Not if I get there first!"

Winding Up Everyone Serves

The Only Way to Travel...And Burn Calories

My Everyone Serves series for Blue Star Families comes to a close with this final post. It's hard to believe that twenty weeks of our deployment have gone by. It's even harder to believe we have another twenty-five or so before we will see Jake again. That's a point I'd as soon not linger on. No Dumps Days, after all. 

I thought that writing a blog series about deployment would be really hard. Some weeks it was, say, equal parts hard and cathartic. I cried my way through more than a couple posts, and still cry when I read back through the work. But it was also some other things as well. 

It was a bonding place. Because I'm a remote Army wife, much of my military acquaintance is connected to me over the internet. I have gotten such encouraging messages from my far-flung friends during the course of this project, people who care about us and have been following us through my blog. 

It has really been a nice connection point in that respect--people we haven't seen in ages have gotten a chance to lift us up over the web. And people I see every day have gotten to see a piece of military life they wouldn't ordinarily come into contact with. And that has always been one of my aims--to bridge the divide between the civilian and military parts of our lives. 

Seeing if Daddy's Hat Fits

It was also a place to make new friends. I did not know the other Everyone Serves bloggers (or BSF's writing staff) before this project. It has really been a pleasure getting to know these ladies through our collective experience. I have loved reading their voices, having them chime in on mine. We are all coping with the same distance, the same fears and challenges, and it's really been a point of strength for me to learn from their unique perspectives. What a tough group!

It was a learning place. Certainly this is true in the sense that the series revolved around the Everyone Serves Book. And as a learning tool, it has been a tremendous resource. (Also, it's FREE, so everyone should have a copy). But it's been more than that. It had been sharing stories. Commiserating in the sorrows and the joys. Getting advice from readers, some old friends and some people I may never know. 

I once described the military as a service-built family. That description has certainly held true over the course of this project. We've built a sort of virtual camaraderie that has blessed me so much, and I hope the feeling is mutual. I hope that I have helped others going through this deployment process to feel ever so slightly less alone in it. 

Twenty-five more weeks to go in this deployment. I'll keep writing, so please keep filling my inbox. 

******

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