There's No Place Like Home. Wherever That Is.

Nomad (ˈnəʊmæd) - noun: a person who continually moves from place to place; a wanderer.

Add in something about being extremely patient and the ability to pack and unpack an entire house in 24 hours, and this could be the definition of a military spouse.

Unlike many of you, I can’t really blame my nomadic existence on the military. I actually just experienced my first military move, since my husband was blessed with an extremely long stint at his last post (unfortunately, with two deployments mixed in). The fact is that I was a serial-mover long before I met my husband. I moved out of my grandmother’s house when I was 15 years old, and moved more than ten times over the next ten years. Most of these moves were within the same, or a nearby, city. But, this still did not allow for many roots to be established. Home was just an imaginary place that others spoke of warmly, but that did not exist for me.

When I moved to Kansas eight years ago for law school, I vowed to leave the day after graduation. It looked flat and cold and plain. Shortly after arriving, my car was stolen from the parking lot of my apartment complex. Along with it, the thieves got my daughter’s car seat (who steals a car seat?), and my wallet which was under the seat, complete with a passport, social security card, and money. (Yes, it was very stupid to leave all of this in my wallet, and even dumber to leave it in the car. Lesson learned.) Needless to say, Kansas and I did not hit it off right away.

But, then I met some of my dearest friends, the most amazing women I’ve ever known. Dallas, Dena, Kathy. These women became my family, my sisters, mothers to my daughter, my foundation, and my roots. The longer we stayed, the more phenomenal women I met. Stef, Anna, Jessica, Debby, Megan, Bekah, Angela, Melissa. Soon I was enveloped by a wonderful web of sisterhood, a web that I couldn’t imagine untangling. Kansas somehow, magically, had become my home. The first home I had ever known.

I couldn’t have fathomed how hard it would be to move away. Mixed with the excitement of moving closer to the ocean, the sense of relief that my husband would (hopefully) no longer be deploying, and the thrill of a new adventure, was an enormous amount of anxiety and sadness. Never had being a nomad been more painful.

I don’t regret the move. Here, my husband can be home with us, safe, and where he belongs. We will have new adventures and will get to experience them together. Still, there’s a hole in my heart, a place that can only be filled by the sisters whom I left behind. But, I'm comforted by the fact that no matter how far away we may be, those women are in my soul and will always be in my life. After all, they’re only a phone call, an email, or if all else fails, an extremely long car ride away. I'll keep my ruby red slippers polished. Because, now I finally understand that there, truly, is no place like home.

Marital, err, advice-ish

Before I get started, I should tell you up front that I have absolutely no business offering marital advice. I'm not a counselor, I'm not a social worker, and most of all ... I’m divorced.

I was married to my first husband for five years. And, after going through a pretty brutal divorce almost six years ago, I vowed that I would never, ever again enter into the institution of marriage (which, at the time, certainly felt institutional). I was convinced that nothing could make a marriage happy, besides perhaps insanity or very strong medications (or some combination thereof). In that relationship, I had the odd (and backwards) experience of feeling sheer terror (mixed with a bit of nausea) on my wedding day, and complete bliss on the day my divorce was--finally--final. And now, although happily married to the man of my dreams, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.

Oh, you’re still reading? I thought for sure I would have lost you after that introduction.

* By the way, when my current husband and I first got married, I often told friends that being married wasn’t so bad when your husband isn’t a jack*ss. And while I believe that would make an excellent bumper sticker, it probably isn’t the most resounding support for marital bliss. I’d like to think I’ve evolved since then.

So, here goes ... the key to a happy marriage is this: Decide to make it work.

What, you’re not impressed? I realize it sounds simplistic, and of course, marriage is far from simple. But, I truly believe that’s all it really boils down to.

A lot of the hard work should really happen before you ever say “I do.” Finding yourself, knowing who you are and what you do and don't want (dating works wonders for this, by the way) is crucial. And, of course, the work of choosing your life partner wisely is paramount. But, once you’ve found the person whom you trust and respect and actually like being around (very important), then it’s just a matter of believing that this is your one-and-only, the one you will be with forever, and then making it happen.

This means that when s/he does something that drives you crazy, you talk about it rather than storming off or threatening to leave. (Hint: Don’t threaten divorce unless you mean it. You can’t take those words back). If you feel as if you are being taken for granted, talk about it rather than sulking or seeking revenge. In every decision you make, your end goal should be to make your marriage, your friendship, your family, your bond stronger. This means looking past your own insecurities and ego and deciding that, as a team, you can and will make it work.

Of course, I'm not saying that leaving is never the right option. There are certainly marriages that should end (case in point: my first). But, if you are married to someone who respects, loves, and cherishes you, and you feel the same for him/her, then nothing short of the big deal-breakers--infidelity, physical or emotional abuse, addictions, or whatever your personal list includes--should be able to bring down your union.

I should reiterate that I don’t have this all figured out yet. (As if my introduction didn't make that perfectly clear). And I don’t think anyone completely does. But, after making peace with commitment and marriage, and nearly three years after saying “I do” to my partner and best friend, I can truly say that I’m glad that I did. And I know that whatever this day, this week, this year, this life has in store, my husband and I are in it together. And that, my friends, is something worth working for.

I Should Clarify . . .

Yesterday, I posted a blog titled, “The Dreaded D-Word.” I realize that many of you reading this are military spouses, so I should probably clarify that I was not referring to the dreaded D-word: deployment. I could have summed that blog up much more succinctly: Deployments suck. A lot.

For any of you who are currently enduring, preparing to endure, or have just recovered from, a deployment—I’m sorry. We finished our most recent deployment 5 months ago. I would tell you the exact number of days, but thankfully, I finally stopped counting. (During the deployment, I could tell you exactly how many months, days, and hours he had been gone, at any time. I could also tell you the exact time in Iraq. But, I digress). This was my husband's fourth, and hopefully his last.

Six months ago, when we found out that we would be moving, we were all elated. Yes, we were excited to move to a warmer climate and finally throw out our way-too-well-used snow shovel. But, most of all, we were excited because we were moving to a non-deploying unit. Or, at least, so we thought. The prospect of having my husband home with us, where he belongs, possibly forever, was overwhelming, but wonderful.

And then came the scare ... on the first day that he reported to his new unit, someone mentioned that they had a slot open for his MOS (translation: specialty) in (drum roll please) ... South America. *record scratches*

What?! I wasn't sure if I had heard him correctly. "Now, don't panic," he said. {Yeah right}. "It's just a rumor, and probably completely untrue. Besides, I just got back, they can't send me anywhere." Now, I may not be a military expert, but if there's one thing I've learned it's this: There is absolutely nothing that the Army "can't" do. There are things they won't do, things they choose (thankfully) not to do. But, "can't" was a bit of a stretch. So although my dear, optimistic husband was trying to reassure me, my mind was already preparing for the worst.

My thought process went something like this ...

Did we seriously just move halfway across the country so that he could leave? Maybe we could go with him. Wait, why on earth do we have people in South America? I've heard there are beautiful areas. We may like it there. Oh, this would be a deployment, so we wouldn't be allowed to go. So, he'd be gone. Again. For how long? What are we going to do here, by ourselves? Maybe we could move back home. But, we just got here! Is it safe where he'd be going? Of course not, or we wouldn't be there. Ok, he can't go. That's it. No matter what, he can't go. But, when he does, I'll have to say goodbye again, and make sure the kids are ok.

Sounds a little schizophrenic, doesn't it? Well, that's what the other, the horrid, D-word does to you. I know that many of you are experiencing the same terror/panic/chaos right now. And again, I'm sorry. And I understand.

Thankfully, my husband was right, and it was just a rumor. He will be staying here, with us. At least, for now. But, as we all know, nothing is ever permanent in the military. So, there will probably always be that little voice in the back of my head, in the bottom of my heart, saying, "be ready, just in case."

But, for now, I'm going to enjoy the time we have together. Enjoy every hug, every kiss, every laugh. I'm going to try to convince myself that he is home for good, and that we can make plans for the future, like "normal" families. My wish is that someday soon we may all quiet those voices, once and for all, and only hear that dreaded word when recalling the times we have survived, and overcome--together.

The Dreaded D-Word

Sponsor’s Name. Dependent’s Name.
I stared at the words on the form and wondered what I had gotten myself into. “Dependent” was like a foul curse word to me. My independence was a crucial part of me, a part that had been built by struggle and sacrifice, and good ol’ fashioned wear and tear. I am a feminist, a title I bear proudly. I am a woman who worked my way through college and law school and the bar exam and was proud to have done it all without the help of a man. And now, here I sat, being reduced to a blank on a form next to the dreaded D-word.

My husband interrupted the condescending man with graying hair and suggested that he talk to me about our finances and other household questions, since I handled most of those matters. He also reminded the man that I, in fact, had my own career. But, the man either didn’t hear him, or chose not to. Either way, he continued to refer to my husband by his rank and me as “Mrs”. I wondered what the insignia would look like.

I also wondered if keeping my own name would have changed this conversation. Maybe I could have at least corrected him and said that, actually, my name was not Mrs, but actually Ms. . . . Thank you very much. But, I doubted that my last name would matter. His insistence on calling me “mrs” had less to do with my last name than it did with his belief that I was merely a shadow of my husband. I’m sure that even if my last name was Rosie the Riveter, he would have continued to call me “mrs” or “little lady” or something equally dehumanizing. And, besides, I love my last name. Now.

My husband expected me to keep my last name when we got married. He also offered to take my last name. He knew that I would struggle with changing my name. But, I decided that my independence was not tied to my name. And I wanted his name—our name. And now, almost three years after saying I do, my name has become just as much a part of me as he has—this strong, brave, yet sweet and vulnerable man who I was proud to call my best friend and partner.

As the gray-haired man continued talking to my husband about our upcoming move, err, PCS, I thought about all the new titles I had taken on in the past three years. Before we got married, I was Pam. I was a woman, an attorney, a friend, and a mother to my beautiful little girl. Now, I am still all of those things, plus some. I am still a mother, but now to two more precious children. I am a wife. A title I never planned to take on again, after the failure of my first marriage years ago. But, a title that I now appreciate and cherish.

And, I am not only a wife, but an Army Wife. Before becoming one of them, I used to think of Army Wives with a mixture of awe and pity. I wondered how they could deal with the multiple deployments and difficulty maintaining their own career because of repeated moves. I wondered why anyone would ever do it . . . until I met him, and he made me understand why. And now, after enduring two tours to Iraq, one that has just ended, my sense of awe for Army Wives has grown, while the sense of pity has been replaced by admiration.

I have struggled with this title from time to time, worrying that it took away from who I was, who I made myself to be, before I was his. Did being an Army Wife make me any less a woman, a mother, a feminist? I worried that it made me less Pam. But, each time I began to worry that my independence was slipping away from me, I thought about the nights I stayed awake waiting for a phone call, and worrying that it may never come, or that it might be replaced by the dreaded knock on the door. I thought about the endless shovels of snow I wrestled last winter while he was away in the dessert. I thought about the nights I cried myself to sleep and then awoke determined to make the day a good one, for me and for our children. And I realized something . . . being an Army wife—or, as this gray-haired man described me, a dependent—didn’t make me weak or any less myself. In fact, it has made me stronger. And loving someone who you risk losing, someone who spends more time on your computer screen than in your arms, is perhaps the bravest and most independent thing I have ever done.

I glanced over at my husband and saw that he was growing increasingly more frustrated with this patriarchal old man. This, made me love him even more. And I decided that being called “Mrs” wasn’t so bad, as long as your Mister was this wonderful.

After all, independence is really about choice. The choice to have a career, the choice to stay home with your children. The choice to stay single, the choice to be married. The choice to be independent, the choice to be a wife, and the ability to do both.

I stroked my husband’s hand, to assure him that it was ok. I was no longer bothered by this man’s insistence or the form’s antiquated language. At least, not enough to protest. I was content to be by here, sitting by my husband, who was home and safe at last. And nothing, not even this conversation, would ruin this moment. Although, I didn’t resist the temptation to respond to our elderly questioner, as he once again referred to me as “Mrs,” this time placing a sickening the in front of the term. “Actually,” I said as I squeezed my best friend’s hand, “my name is Pam.”

So, what to do now?

We PCSed about a month ago. We’ve spent that time getting settled in our new home, unpacking our many boxes, decorating (well, I’ve decorated, my husband just nods in approval), and getting our daughter settled in her new school (which has taken some work). We’ve enjoyed these past weeks, finally getting to spend time together, time that we so sorely missed during his last deployment. But, as they say, all good things must end.

It’s Monday morning. My husband went back to work today. Our daughter is at school. Last night, as they were each filled with anticipation about the beginning of their week—he, because he gets his unit assignment; she, because she has final exams—I was thinking about what I would do to make sure the day was productive. And I was realizing that, for the first time, I wasn’t going anywhere.

I have never been one to take time off. In fact, before this move, I had never taken more than a week off since I started working when I was 15. I’m not exaggerating. When my daughter was born, I was a senior in college. She was born on Saturday, I was back in class on Tuesday morning, and back to work soon after. I guess you could say that I took “off” of work during my first year of law school. But, considering I was attending eight hours of classes, followed by several more hours of studying, combined with the fact we weren’t allowed to work, I didn’t really consider it a break. I’ve always worked hard, and usually in several jobs at a time. So, yes, I’m tired. And in my last position, the hours had gotten long, the work stressful, and the traveling intense. So, I was looking forward to this time off. Or, so I thought.

I’ve enjoyed the past few weeks relaxing and getting settled in with my family. But, what am I supposed to do now? Now that they’re all gone and I’m at home—alone?

It’s not that I need people around me to be happy. In fact, I really enjoy my privacy and solitude. I’m perfectly comfortable being alone and spending time with just me, myself, and I. What’s bothering me isn’t being alone—it’s not working. It’s hard for me to realize that my husband is off getting his assignment, my daughter is off learning and working hard on her classes, and I’m here, with nothing to do.

Of course, I should clarify that “nothing” includes doing laundry, vacuuming, the never finished chore of unpacking and organizing, getting everything ready for Christmas, writing and submitting freelance articles online, working on my website for my new business, and applying for jobs (since I must always have a back-up plan). So, it’s not like I’m bored. I just feel, well . . . un-me.

I suppose it’s just time to develop a new me. One who doesn’t need to be exhausted to feel productive, and one who doesn’t need business to feel useful. And I guess it’s time to start working on her now. That should keep me busy for a while.

Strong Women Get Sad, Too.

A random, yet highly important, rant. Written in March 2010, a little over halfway through my husband's last deployment. I share this for all of the strong women, who just want people to understand that they, in fact, get tired, too.

My husband is away. In a war zone. For an entire year. He left on August 18 at 2:30am, which means he’s been gone for 7 months, 16 days, and 15 hours. I know because I count—all the time. And saying goodbye the second time was almost as hard as the first. I used to frequent news sites, but now I avoid them. I don’t need to read about how dangerous the world is, because I see it in my dreams. I miss him when I shovel the snow alone, mow the yard alone, and when I wake up alone. I miss him when our daughter wants him to come to her Veteran’s Day assembly and when our son asks me how long a year is—again. I miss him when I see couples hugging and I’m reminded that I won’t feel my husband’s hug for months. I miss him when I’ve had a rough day at work and when I’ve had a great day at work. I just miss him—all the time. I know that no one can truly understand this unless they’ve lived it. And thankfully, I’ve been blessed enough to know some people who have lived it. And I know that people mean well when they say “hang in there” or “you’ll make it, you’re strong” or “just stay busy and the time will fly by.” Well, I am busy—busier than I’d like to be, and I am strong—stronger than ever. But, what people seem to forget is that even busy and strong women get sad, too.

Staying busy does not make the time go faster, it just makes me more tired. And being strong does not keep me from hurting, it just keeps me from having a breakdown—or at least, having one in public. Well, that’s not exactly true. I am very careful not to show how much I am truly hurting in front of my coworkers or, especially, my children. But, when the sweet woman at the post office (who due to my weekly packages now knows my name) asked me when he was coming home—I lost it. I started crying. In the post office. And something tells me that the sweet woman has been in this position, or something similar, because she didn’t say “it will be ok” or “hang in there.” She just gently touched my hand and said “I’m sorry.” And somehow, those simple words, from a complete stranger, meant so much. She didn’t expect me to be ok or tell me how quickly the time will pass. She just acknowledged my pain.

It’s amazing how much two words can help, can heal, and can push you to make it through another day. Those simple comments from friends like, “that really sucks” or “I hate deployments” have helped so much more than words of encouragement. I’m angry and sad that my husband is gone. And I’m starting to see that other people are angry and sad with me. And sometimes, even strong, busy women need that, too.

Shutting Off the Phones

When your husband is deployed, your internet and telephone become your life lines. At least, they were for me. Once, during one of my extremely stressed-out, can't-take-anymore moments, my husband asked me to do one small favor for him: turn off the phone, and go to sleep. It seems like a simple request. But, for me, it was terrifying. How could I completely shut off my one and only connection to the man I love, my partner, my best friend? What if he needed me? How would I live with myself if something happened to him and I wasn't able to take his call? But, I did as he asked, and it turns out that it was exactly what I needed. Sometimes, in order to be truly connected, all we have to do is disconnect.

This is the letter I wrote to him that night. . .

My Love,

Thank you. Thank you for hearing me rant and cry—again. I’ve kept my promise—the phone has been off all day. And you’re right, it does feel like a weight off of my shoulders. Or, as you put it, a monkey off of my back. I do keep thinking that I need to check it—just to make sure you’re ok. But, then I remember that it’s the middle of the night there, and hopefully you’re sound asleep.

I promise you that I’m going to work on feeling better. I did relax today, although you were also right about me not napping. I didn’t sleep, but I did lie on the couch for a while. Then I thoroughly vacuumed the carpet and stairs (yes, that’s therapeutic for me) and made some grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner (comfort food). I’ve made myself focus on all of the good things in our lives. And there are so many good things. I’m already feeling a lot better.

I didn’t realize I was relying on the phone so much, mostly as a connection to you. I always try to have it right by me, so I can always answer when you call. But, I think always being tied to the phone made me a little resentful. Not toward you of course, but because all I ever get to hold on to is the phone—and not you. Of course, that’s not your fault, and it’s not mine, it’s just the reality of deployment. I really do think that not being able to touch you is part of what gets me so down. I know you understand, and I know we’re both going through the same thing. I love our webcam dates and phone calls. But, after a while, I start to get upset because all I really want is a hug. (Ok, I want more than that, but a hug would work).

I’m not telling you any of this to make you feel bad. And I really hope that I’m not. Because what I really want to tell you is that you’ve once again made me realize how lucky I am. I have a great life. Most of all, I have a supportive, wonderful husband who always knows how to make me feel better. Thank you for that, baby. Really. I hope you feel like I’ve been here for you, too. I want us to always support one another. Because no matter how crazy life gets, as long as we can be here for each other, and make each other smile, we can get through anything.

And although I really do wish you were here, so I could touch and kiss and hug you again, I will focus more on all of the great things that we are able to share, even from far away. We can still share our thoughts and dreams and fears and days, and we can still make each other smile. That will get us through everything. And one thing I know for sure is that no matter how hard it is to be away from you—you are definitely worth waiting for.

I’m going to get some workout time in to unwind, and then get to bed early. But, before I sleep, I’m going to say a prayer, and thank God for sending me you. And then I’m going to send you a big, warm hug and kiss. I know you’ll be able to feel it…just like I can feel you thinking about me.

I love you. And I’m so grateful for our family, for our love, for our bond…for you. And I always will be.

Loving you more than ever.
Your proud and grateful wife