Deployment Journal - Day #91

People told me she wouldn't notice the absence of her Daddy.  I mean, she's so little and he's only home a few hours, on the best of days.  Maybe she wouldn't notice his never coming home, right?  Wrong.  He left, and she promptly stopped sleeping.  And started whimpering constantly.  And fidgetting.  And she didn't smile as much.  And she freaked out if I moved more than 12 inches away from her.

 

I honestly don't think it was my fault; I acted as much like my normal self as possible, and I think I did a darn good job.  I was cheerful and playful and pretended all was normal.  But, especially at bedtime, she knew.  She would murmur, "Da da da da..." and look up at me so forlornly.  He had always put her to bed.  Now, she struggled to fall asleep, woke up every hour crying panicked "Momma!  Momma!"s, and would kick and struggle if I dared to sing DADDY'S goodnight songs.  I had to sing other songs.  She was ok with that.

 

Finally, one day, he appeared on Skype.  She saw him from across the room on my laptop - and seriously lost her mind.  She was so excited, she couldn't handle it.  She flew across the room, and did all her tricks for him, in rapid succession, unprompted.  Sticking out her tongue, making clicking noises, crawling, squealing, touching foreheads with me, playing peek-a-boo with him.  And she got all shy every time he said her name.

 

She's only seven months old.  How does she know?  She can't figure out that the kid in the mirror is her; she sits on her own hand and cries in confused pain; she still can't deduce how to do a crawling U-turn, but she knows Daddy isn't home when he's supposed to be.  She misses him.  The doctors told me she'd forget.  But, she hasn't. 

 

On the nights he doesn't Skype or call, my job is much more difficult.  I intentionally let her get into all sorts of mischief, just to help time pass until bedtime.  And those last couple hours are still torturous.  Nothing amuses her, distractions are minimally effective, she fights her last feeding, clearly exhausted but not wanting to go to bed without his voice - and then, she doesn't sleep well.  (I relate.  I do the same thing.  Only hours after she does.)

 

But, on the nights when he sends her to bed, talking to her about her fluffy blankets and her stuffed giraffe and her songs, even via Skype, she sleeps solidly.  It's like magic.  And it works every single time.

 

Someone recently asked me how often we talk to him.  "Oh, every day or two, he calls on the phone, and a few times per week, we try to Skype.  Sometimes it doesn't work, but we try," I smiled politely.  

 

"Oh, that's great you get to talk so much!" she enthused, heartlessly.

 

Really?  That's great?  Because I think it's lousy.  I think we're doing our best, and I'm grateful for the amount we can talk.  But, I doubt you'd like talking to your husband once every couple of days, and never getting to chose when, or for how long, or how many times you'll get disconnected, or interrupt/not be able to hear each other because of the technical delay, or if you'll be in the middle of a sentence when he has to disappear again for another 48 hours. 

 

I think when your husband deploys, you won't think it's 'great.'

 

But, I didn't say that.  I just nodded and politely inquired about her life, in the same tone that I respond when people reassuringly assert that my daughter doesn't realize he's gone.  I know better than they do.

 

What I don't know is how people did this before satallite phones and Skype.