I realized something about myself today. Relief makes me like things. Even somewhat irrationally.
Oh, Burger King! How I love you, tho' you be the sole source of drive-thru food for miles!
My trashcan liners! MINE! Here, I will put a new one in MY trashcan! THERE! I love lining trash cans!!!
Stairs! Climbing stairs is the BEST. Hauling suitcases up them is fun, too! YAY! We're hauling, we're hauling, we're hauling, we're hauling!
Isn't it AMAZING to be HOME, Little One?!
Conversely, fear makes me dislike things that I would otherwise really enjoy.
Like classroom learning. And marriage. And parties. And trying new things. Like rockclimbing and sardines.
When, for whatever reason, fear levels are lower, I like everything more. Proportionally so. Thus, when fear levels are nill - say, I'm back in my own house with my own space and my own schedule and my own choices and no one observing or judging me... I'm elated. It feels like I can do life again.
It's amazing to be home.
When I first booked our tickets to fly from the warm place to the cold place, I thought an 8:00 p.m. arrival time would be fine. It was the only straight-through option (and those are kinda a big deal to we moms traveling alone with squirmy toddlers) and the weather is usually fine at night in January and it'd be easier for one of my working friends to pick us up anyhow. Also, Little One wasn't going to bed until around 10 p.m. when I booked the flight.
What a miscalculation.
Evil Storm Gandalf pounded the area for two days beforehand (I kept telling myself that it would be "over" by the time our travel day arrived, but he held out longer), and Little One's bedtime had moved to 7 p.m. Bad stuff.
I lived in denial until we arrived at the airport, and my HAIRDRESSER called. (Yes. I live in a very small town.) She knew I was flying in (I had a haircut scheduled for the following day) and urged me not to try to get from the city to my home that night. I bit my lip and wondered if she was being paranoid. I know these roads can get really, really bad, but they never have in the last two years.
She called back, about ten minute later, having just listened to her "battery radio" and heard the newest road closures, wreck reports, and weather updates. She told me to stay near the airport.
Crud.
Meanwhile, Little One had fallen asleep two minute from the airport, so we were loitering and strategically dragging our feet in the parking garage. Finally, we rushed inside (I had issues unhooking the carseat. Hate carseats.), went to the bathroom, (naturally Nature called at the worst time possible) said our farewells, got through security (barely - so awkward - this was my least impressive attempt ever). Aided by a nice Santa-Clause-like TSA agent named Charlie, we made it through with only one bag getting re-inspected (who knew that kids' books containing batteries would set off sensors?!) and rushed off to our gate, massively disorganized. I spent the whole time huffing and trying to figure out what I'd forgotten.
Keys, ID, Ticket, Child... have those - how bad can it be?
While in line to board, I called my friend who was supposed to pick us up. I only had two minutes, and rapidly told her not to come - we'd stay in a hotel.
"Oh, I'm already halfway there - I left early," she replied.
Crud.
I had to board. Little One was crying. It was almost bedtime already.
The nicest angel sat next to us. She was a grandmother of seven. She looked up hotels and rates and road condition reports for me, with her free Wi-Fi pass. She let Little One play with her Kindle, dressing up the kitty and reading virtual books. Little One figured out the touchscreen gestures instantly. Scary. We fed her ice chips and limes and tried to keep her quiet, which worked until the last 20 minutes when she finally just howled and flailed and lost her mind. (We were now an hour past bedtime.)
Trudging as rapidly as possible down the corridor with a weeping child, I decided we had to stop and change her diaper. This was when I realized I had 3 remaining diapers to last until we got home.
Awesome.
We met our faithful friend and began discussing options. I still didn't want to stay in town. She didn't want to say "We need to." She's super sweet like that. But, reason dictated that we really ought to stay. It was nasty out there.
After an hour of gathering baggage, trying install that (dang) carseat (in another new vehicle, with different hooks and tethers) in sub-zero temperatures, trying to console my still wailing child, we headed cautiously down the road to our hotel. Just those three miles were scary.
We got to the hotel, but Little One panicked if she lost sight of me. Naturally. We were now almost three hours past bedtime and she was thoroughly traumatized by this day. So I tried to carry her across the glassy ice, along with my shoulder bag, while wearing the stupidest, slippery-est flats EVER. We almost died in that parking lot.
I got inside, we quivering tried to check in, and turned out - they needed a different ID than my military ID.
Back across the parking lot.
I tried leaving Little One with my friend, deciding that frostbite would be worse than emotional upset. I may have predicted that wrong. Frenzy doesn't even capture her reaction.
But, we got checked in and limped upstairs to our room. Providentially, somehow I had packed all the crucial things into one bag. That was God's influence alone, since I must have moved a dozen items from bag to bag, right before leaving my parents' house. I couldn't even remember what was where, but we hauled up one bag - the one that I knew contained her special blankets, my laptop, my phone charger, and who-knows-what else.
And we never needed any other bag, so Praise De Lord. (Also, when you sleep in your clothes, eat cookies for dinner, and have no toiletries, it does cut down on needs.)
It took poor Little Kitten almost an hour of weeping to fall asleep - after we figured out how to assemble the playpen, which the hotel thankfully offered us. I got online, and talked to Husband. Poor husband knew none of what had happened. Somehow, it helped just to have internet again. Funny how internet access is a security.
We slept better than I expected. In between two nursing sessions, I probably got 4 hours of sleep. YES.
There was a paltry continental breakfast in the morning, and we lingered, kinda scared of the road, but still (yes, this was desperate) hoping to get me back in time for my noon haircut. Ha. We drove about 35 MPH the whole way home. We lived.
... I ended up moving my haircut back to 12:30, because we arrived on my driveway at 11:20; it was covered in a foot of snow, and... I deduced that we could not leave again in ten minutes.
We did, however, nurse and change diapers, find boots and coats, unload the car and leave again in 35 minutes. GO US.
Between the adrenaline of driving on terrible ice, and having eaten no solid food in 18 hours, I was shaking so badly by the time I got to the salon, I could barely climb the stairs. I bought a bag of Doritoes and gobbled it like a crazy person. My gracious hairdresser didn't comment, only smiled. I eventually began telling her about the past 24 hours.
Little One must have remembered the salon, because she was suddenly at ease and cheerful again. Everyone there loves her. Also, I'd brilliantly thought to grab her a snack too. Food makes a huge difference.
And my hair got cut and styled. I felt human again.
We drove home, over the crazy ice again, and collapsed thru our doorway. I pulled some meat and milk and butter and bread from the freezer, put Baby down for a nap, and fell onto the couch. We were home. Barely.
Blogging as a mom is hard.
Blogging in general is hard, for the same reasons that going to a gym is hard. Even if you love it, even if you love the results, stuff comes up. Co-workers invite you out for Indian food, right when you scheduled a swim. You get a sinus infection. You have to work late. Your girlfriend needs to talk.
Then, those time you sit down and actually intend to blog... you can't remember why. Inspiration? Whoooosh.
I'd figured out my own ways of circumventing most of these life-ish obstacles before becoming a mom. But now, there are new obstacles. Namely a profound lack of time, and - within that profound lack of time - a agonizing lack of schedule.
Now hear me out - I have her on a schedule. I believe in schedules. But, I also believe in growth spurts and teething and neurological developments and no one told me that these things are diametric to scheduling, until after she was born and my "We will have a scheduled life!" ideals delusions were firmly cemented into my already-exhausted brain.
Thus, when I use the first half of her 60 minute nap to eat, shower, dress, and turbo-clean .000067% of my house - intending to use the second half to compose/post a blog - inevitably, she only naps for 40 minutes that day. No joke. Every single time.
(And no, I'm not opposed to letting her cry! But sometimes, she's just awake early. Sometimes, I just guessed wrong. Sometimes "letting her cry" doesn't solve much!)
(Yes, I'm being preemptively defensive here. Pretty sure the whole world is critiquing my parenting these days. Sorry if you're a merciful reader and were not thinking corrective thoughts just then.)
So anyhow... it's tough trying to blog and be a young mom. Also, to figure out what to say, and how/if to say it. Or if it's just the sleep-deprivation talking.
Thus, honest blog posts like this one make me cry. Because I relate. And thank Heaven I'm not alone in my confused mullings. It's such a new season, being a mom. It's like all the usual mile markers are gone.
It's also possible we just need more sleep.
So I planned to resume blogging after my funk month. But evidently, that's an utterly silly idea when one is staying with one's family, during the holiday season. As is writing (much less sending) a Christmas letter. So, here's my update, in blurbed form.
* * *
It's gotten harder to talk to Husband. At first, we lacked topics beyond "What did you eat today?" and "Baby learned a new skill" and that got depressing fast. We eventually found our groove, discussing dreams and decor and vacations ideas.
But then, I found myself increasingly verbally guarded, unenthused, ho-hum. I was genuinely excited, waiting for his calls - but after our initial "Hi!" I'd kinda retreat emotionally. I couldn't figure out why. Until I talked to another wife of a deployed member, and she mentioned the same experience.
"It's like emotional rationing, or something!" I tried to explain. "I'm scared to over-invest. And I feel too tired to overcome it..."
"YES!" She exclaimed, "Exactly!"
At least, I'm not alone. I promptly explained my confused realization to Husband. That helped. A tad.
* * *
Shortly before Christmas, we got the happiest news of this year: Husband was accepted for a prestigious masters degree program. He'll start next fall. This means he won't deploy again for 18 months. This means we get to live somewhere we had hoped to live. This is a minor miracle. We're thrilled.
Downside: We're moving a year earlier than I expected.
I spent about two days, giddy with glee. Then, I crashed into deep mourning over leaving our beloved home. And Little One's room, with the mint green, sponged duckies, and our garden box, with its finally fertile soil, and all the memories...
To overcompensate, I obsessed over shopping for our next rental home ridiculously early. Which is impossible.
* * *
There is truly nothing like parenting to help me understand how I want the lesser, but more immediate, more familar things in life - even when God is trying to give me better ones.
Baby howls, then crumbles in furious despair when I try to give her a better toy, or remove her current one so I can fix it, or show her a new way to play with it. She doesn't understand. She only knows the toy isn't in her hands anymore. And she wants it back.
I'm just like that.
* * *
Pretty sure that God gives us time for all we need to do, each day. But, maybe not enough time for Hulu, too.
* * *
I was trying to explain the fatigue of deployment to my mother, one night. "It's just so weighty, so heavy," I grasped for words. "The weight of decisions, even the little ones - just the weight of knowing I have to do many things alone, the weight of wondering if I'm parenting Little One right, the weight of being scared of burglars, of falling and hitting my head and having no one know I'm hurt, of wrecking our car, of never sleeping again, of reintegration..."
Some of it is my brain just going nuts. But, some of it is valid. I feel like I have no margin for mistakes, no one to offset my own flaws and missteps.
People think the worry about KIAs is what messes with you most. But, I block that out pretty well.
Instead, my brain gets terrified of locking my keys in our car.
* * *
It was great to be back in civilization for a bit. But, I found myself wary of parking lots. Maybe we've lived in Rural America too long, where strange men routinely tip their cowboy hats to me and wordlessly help load groceries into my trunk, then stride away politely; it was a shock to be back in an environment where no one smiled, but everyone stares. Menacingly.
Felt like I couldn't get Little One and I into our car fast enough. So weird. Paranoia doesn't begin to capture it. I know in my head that everyone in the metropolis is NOT a creeper, but gosh - hard to tell.
Also, the world was SO COLORFUL. I'm clearly not used to mass marketing anymore.
* * *
I have never missed my husband this much before. Not when we were engaged, not as newlyweds, not during previous separations. I physically ache for him. Inexpressibly.
... CAN NOT WAIT for him to be home.
