Remember

Open your eyes. Open your eyes and absorb all of it as it is passing through you, by you, around you. Remember it. Remember it with all that you have. Remember the tiny details. The ticking of the clock. The position of the sun in the sky. The temperature. Were you cold? Were you hot? Were you nothing at all? Remember the beeping of the machines. Remember the tears...Oh forget it. I know you will never forget the tears. Yours, his, theirs... Remember the tiny diapers. Remember the blood pressure cuff that was the size of a bandaid. Remember the bottles which were measured in millileters, instead of ounces. Remember the nurses...they were your lifeline. Somehow they seemed to love them almost as much as you did. Remember the IV's. Remember the heart monitors. Remember the "baby" sunglasses for when they were under the billirubin lights. Remember the clothes. Remember thinking that those clothes looked like they were for a Barbie Doll. Remember the hours you spent pumping breast milk....for the feeding tubes... Remember not being allowed to touch...Remember watching them through the incubator...unable to touch, unable to hold...just staring...Remember the first moment you saw them. Remember what you were wearing, what you were thinking, what you were crying. Remember the feeling of your entire soul screaming at the top of its lungs...Remember the agony. Remember believing you had killed them. Remember your weakness. Remember your vulnerability. Remember your fight. Remember being discharged from the hospital, getting in the car, and driving "home"...without. them. Remember the hysteria that dwelled in you every minute you were apart. Remember the exhaustion. Remember the sympathy...people are so sympathetic with tragedies...Remember. Remember.

Remember the first time you touched them. Remember the first moment you held them. Remember the apnea's and bradycardia's. Remember the bottle feedings. Remember the breast feedings. Remember the dark intestine on the X Rays. Remember them stopping all feedings. Remember them intubating her. Remember them extubating her. Remember them putting him in an "open air" crib. Remember the doctor, social worker, and nurses coming in to "talk to you". Remember screaming at God in the car on the way home. Remember begging Him, begging her, begging them to not let her die. Remember touching her for what could have been the last time. Remember that it was not the last time. Remember the first time you heard the word "mama". Remember the first laugh. Remember the first cry. Remember the first sickness. Remember him stopping breathing. Remember her turning blue. Remember begging God again. Remember everything working out fine.

Remember sitting in the hospital at their bedsides. Remember holding her all night long while she cried, "Mommy help me! Mommy help me!" Remember being helpless. Remember the bed time stories. Remember the kisses goodnight. Remember the arguments. Remember the battles. Remember the silliness. Remember them not going to bed. Remember them playing in the bath. Remember them playing in the toilet. Remember her falling asleep with the 85 lb chocolate lab "snuggling" her. Remember her, and her, and her, and you having the swine flu...trying to hold it all together. Remember him stopping breathing. Remember begging God...and him coming back to you. Remember. Remember.

You get through tragedies...one moment at a time. One second at a time. When in the midst of emotional agony...you have no idea how you will survive it, but you'll find that after many moments have gone by...you did. Only by the grace of God. You will get through this. And you'll look back three years from now, and wonder how the heck it all happened, and how you didn't end up insane.

mushy, gushy, sappy stuff. :)

I rolled over in bed and realized...he is home. It's strange how long it can take for the euphoria of reuniting to wear off. Sometimes it's two days, sometimes it's four weeks...who knows? It was weird. Last night I was grumpy, irritable...hormonal. I wasn't rude or mean, I just quite honestly didn't feel like cuddling. The elation of him being home had sort of worn off, and my feeling like it was necessary to cuddle all night long dissipated. Then this morning came. I woke up not being held. It struck me that I felt so cold. I rolled over and opened my eyes and there he was. Sleeping on his back, mouth open slightly, snuggled up under our comforter. His legs were on my side of the bed, because our chocolate lab was at the foot of his side of the bed.

I was struck by something that I think is so easy to forget when you have loved someone as long as I have loved him...he is beautiful. His touch is beautiful. His heart is beautiful. His mind is beautiful. His brain, his hands, his feet, his soul...they are all beautiful. He works so hard to lead this family the way that God wants him to. He listens to me, and cherishes my opinion. But he is also strong enough to tell me when I'm wrong. I cannot begin to tell you how important that is to me. I have a strong personality. I will walk all over you if I want to. I am smart, and quick with words, and I am quite capable of battling almost anyone with wits. I am not trying to put myself on a pedestal, just painting the picture of who this fella married. :) He knows how to tell me I'm wrong. It's funny because I have heard it said of him that he is a weak leader. I've heard people say that I run all over him and that I run this household, and he just happens to get to live here...as long as he doesn't make me angry. But no one really knows. Maybe it's because my husband comes across as weak. I don't know. Maybe it's because he projects an aspect of himself that doesn't feel like fighting. I kid you not...that man knows how to tell me what to do. He knows how to lay down the law. It's really sexy.

So many men think that women want an equal partner. Maybe some women do want that, however I just don't know very many that do. Almost every woman I know, doesn't want an EQUAL partner, they want EQUAL value. It's different. I don't want to be equally responsible for taking out the trash, or being in the military, or mowing the lawn, or a thousand other stereotypically gender assigned roles. I want to know that I have a man who is strong, intelligent and capable of managing our household. I want someone who fights for me. Who will fight with me. Who will tell me when I'm wrong. I don't want someone who kisses my ass all day long and tries to cater to my every whim. I want a man who will grab me, hold me, kiss me, and I can go to sleep knowing that he's got it all under control...and I can relax.

When I look at my husband I see the type of leader I wish all men could be. He is stronger than any man I have ever known. Any of you who read this, and might have happened to attempt to be in a relationship with me, can attest...I am a difficult woman to "manage."

My sister told me a long time ago I needed to find a man who was stronger than me. She told me I needed a man who was stronger than my strongest self. She said I needed someone more intelligent, more stubborn, more driven, more in charge, so that I could relax and let them lead. I remember when she told me that (she was referring to a boy I was dating at the time, and how he was none of those things...she was right, and we did break up) I thought she was dead wrong. I thought, I don't need or want that. What is strange is that I actually ended up marrying that. Well, almost entirely that. He is definitely more stubborn than I am (yes, I am dead serious. I said, MORE). He is also stronger than me.

I digress. I do that a lot. I am often distracted by my thoughts... It struck me this morning that he is really home. It was a beautiful moment. This morning I just jumped on him. Okay, not how you think, dirty minds...I just grabbed him, and I held on tight. He asked me what was wrong. I told him that nothing was. I just needed to hold him. I am so thankful that he is here. I am thankful that I can hold him in the morning. I am thankful that he isn't missing from the family moments. I'm thankful for him being my partner, my best friend, my confidant, my challenger, my leader. I am thankful that Iraq didn't take him away from me forever. I admire him. I admire his strength. I admire his ability to lead me, like no other man has ever been capable of doing. I admire his intelligence. I admire his softness. I admire his compassion. He takes my breath away. He really does.

Tantrums, groceries, and Cesar... :)

I had my first child temper tantrum today at the grocery store. Yes, I said FIRST. I have a five year old and three, three year olds and today was the first tantrum I ever dealt with in the store. My son decided he wanted to see if I had balls...So, he looked me square in the eye and decided to test my patience with a bunch of people looking on. I kid you not, it was like a square off in a western. Somewhere in the background, there was that whistle sound going off and a tumbleweed blowing by. He was on one end, and me on the other...who was going to draw and shoot first, and who was going to win the the battle? My son has yet to recognize, I am no punk. When you take on big mama, you lose. It's that simple.

I told him to hold on to the cart, so we could keep moving. You see, one of my rules while grocery shopping with the kids is that they all have to hold the cart while we walk. My son says: "No." I said, "Hold on to the cart." He said, "NO!" I said, "Okay, goodbye!" I literally walked five inches away (kid you not, one step), and he starts screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs... "I DO NOT WANT TO HOLD THE CART!"

Now, other mom's might have been embarrassed, or they might have ignored the kid, or spanked them, or yelled at them, or a thousand other responses, but I have to admit...I laughed. I had to hide my face, because I was laughing so hard. Sometimes it is quite funny to see the things that toddlers will choose to do battle over. When I had finally gained my composure, he was still screaming on the floor. I walked up to him and said quite plainly, "You hold this cart, now. We are all waiting for you to decide to behave." The trick is...you have to whisper it. Little kids are curious about what you're saying and the quieter that you talk, the more eager they are to hear it. It's almost like on some level of their brains they're wondering if you're promising them candy or a treat or something, and they don't want to miss out. He went dead silent, but didn't budge. "I said, now." Then began the stare off. I have learned this trick from Cesar Milan in regards to dealing with naughty dogs (I am not calling my son a dog, but it is however quite successful with little children), stare them down. Don't glare, don't be angry or aggressive, simply look at them with a calm submissive look. Provide calm energy. So that's what I did. You could see him starting to shift in place, and look all awkward. And then...it happened. He relented, grabbed the cart and we went on our way.

In a nutshell, I survived my first tantrum. Whew! Someone should give me a drink! ;)

The little black dress

When I was seventeen, my mom took me to Macy's and bought me a very beautiful, and expensive, black dress. It was a gift to me for my eighteenth birthday. My whole childhood, my parents struggled financially and for my mom to have spent as much as she did on a dress that made me feel the way that one did, meant a lot to me.

This dress has become a dress of meaning in my life. It was the dress I wore to my surprise 18th birthday party. That night was the first night I felt deeply special, and very treasured. I still remember it like it was yesterday.

The dress was also the first dress I ever wore in front of a boy that deeply held my heart. Back when I went to Bethel College, a boy came all the way from Kansas to meet me. We had met on the phone some few months earlier. He took a bus all night long up to Minnesota just so that we could meet in person. I will never forget the moment that soldier knocked on my dorm room door, and walked forever in to my heart. I still remember what I was wearing (no it wasn't the dress), an orange turtleneck (that I still have, and was my mom's when she was young) blue jeans, and a brown jacket. Anyway, he came back before he deployed to the middle east for the first time. This was the first boy I ever deeply loved. It was instantaneous. Honestly! I told my girlfriends when I met him on the phone, that I met the man I was going to marry. They all laughed at me...but...who was right!? haha.

The first night that he came to visit me, before our first deployment goodbye, he wanted to go to a fancy restaurant. So I did my hair, and put on that dress. The impression it had on him has never left my mind...Never have I ever felt as beautiful as he made me feel that night. To him, I was drop. dead. gorgeous.

The dress has not fit me since that night. And I have never worn it for another man. Only him. Something inside of me has always prevented me from giving it away. It has traveled with me across the nation, through many moves. For the last three years, it has been sitting in the back of my closet amongst the items that will NEVER fit me again, but are sentimental.

You see, when I was pregnant with the triplets, my doctor told me I needed to gain 150lbs. I didn't quite gain that much, but I came close. I think I was around 139 ish or so...I kind of forget now. Anyway, I gained a lot. My body completely changed after the triplet pregnancy. I have so much loose and hanging skin...that it has been emotional for me to even look at myself in the mirror. Literally, it's an ugly site.

I have been working hard, in the last year to lose weight. After the triplets were born, I automatically lost 60 lbs. I came home from the hospital with that much less weight. But the roughly 70 pounds or so have still been around. I have gained some, lost some, gained some more. In the past year, I have lost almost 60 pounds.

Today, my husband asked me to try on that dress...the one I wore for him so many, many, many nights ago. I said, it's not going to fit me. He said, "I think it will". I said, it's not going to. It will upset me to try it on, so I'm not going to. But I have to admit, he had awakened my curiosity, so when he left the room...I got it out.

IT FIT! It fit me! I couldn't believe it! I walked out into the living room, where he was out, with it on. I leaned against one of our chairs and I went, "ahem!". He looked up at me from across our living area...and his eyes lit up. He said, "IT FITS! You look hot!" And then he started following me around the house just touching me in it (no...not inappropriately). He was telling the kids that this was the first dress he had ever seen me wear.

This sparked even more courage in me...I started trying on other significant dresses: best friend's bridesmaid dress (so big, didn't even need to zip to pull it up), second oldest sister's bridesmaid dress (too big), oldest sister's bridesmaid dress (too big, but could be altered), high school prom dress (it fit), high school dress I always liked (it fit), and on and on and on... they all either fit or were too big! I was shocked. I curled up in a ball on my closet floor and started crying. I never in my wildest dreams would've believed I would ever be able to wear any clothes from back in the day, after delivering triplets (and before having some sort of reconstructive surgery). Of course, they don't look like they looked back when I had a six pack, and I was all toned and fit...but with some girdle support...I think you wouldn't be able to notice at all the hanging skin... :)

So this dress...this black dress that is now almost ten years old is here yet again at a significant moment in my life. It's a beautiful day. :)

I love Iraq.

I love Iraq. I REALLY do. It may sound completely weird and bizarre for an army wife to say that they LOVE the country that has played a major role in many many many family separations...but I really do love it! I love the people. I love the place.

Okay, before you get up and throw me out of your life forever, declare me a lunatic, and maybe punch me in the face...let me explain. Iraq has taken my husband away from me four times. Some of those times we weren't married, but you get what I mean. I have spent thousands of nights wondering, worrying, and waiting for that country to either take my husband's life, or to give him back to me. This is something that I have come to realize only recently...Iraq is beautiful. It isn't beautiful for its terrain or anything specific to itself...it is beautiful because it is where many people I have loved and cared for... lived. They LIVED there! My husband's DNA was coughed into its air, his DNA fell off his arms and joined its sand, his sweat dripped off, his body... He lived there. Has Iraq ever been his home? No. But people that we have loved dearly, and still do, died there. How can I hate the place where my dear friend's husband went to heaven from? How can I resent a country where he took his last breath?

Places are not evil or good. They just are.

Iraq has also given me wonderful gifts. Many of you know that my husband came home from Iraq a long time ago...severely different. A part of him died in Iraq, when his friend died there. When he came home, he was horrible to be around. It was one of the most painful times in my life, and it has been one of the most horrible times in our marriage. It was exceptionally painful, damaging and traumatic... But this is what makes me love Iraq...through that hardship, through the horribleness that happened in my marriage as a result of my husband being there...the best relationship I have ever had, has emerged. I learned more, through that experience, about God, my husband, and myself than I ever thought possible. I have lived a true miracle. A complete and utter miracle. My husband has been cured from his PTSD and is now no longer on any medications, and WITHOUT any help from the Army. God literally spared him, and me, from that illness having hold any longer. Maybe one of these days I'll look back in to that time and write about what we actually went through. I honestly am not shy or unwilling to talk about it. Quite the contrary, both my husband and I tell people about it all the time. Not in any sort of bragging or "look at us" kind of way, but simply to show people that YOU CAN get through anything! You can survive! You can still love! You can still trust! And this CAN get better.

Okay, I think I got off topic somewhere, and I know I'm terrible about that. Don't judge me...yes...that is one of my token phrases on here! haha. Oh well. You're reading this so there must be something about it that you're enjoying. Back to why I love Iraq:

In addition to the PTSD experience that changed me, and showed me so many things...Iraq gave me the past year. My husband was deployed, yet again, to that beautiful country. This time things were remarkably different in our situations: we could talk on a webcam, and we had four chidlren. It was wonderful to see him. Sure it was hard to not be able to touch and hold and kiss...but it was SO wonderful to go through a deployment being able to look in his eyes, and cry together and have it be more than a sound. It was beautiful to have him just look at me, and know what I was thinking and feeling, without me having to explain it through a broken and damaged telephone signal.

In the past year, I learned even more about my capabilities than I learned with my husband's PTSD. I learned, that I CAN take care of four very young, and three very fragile, children all by myself. In the past year, my son coded (that's right I said coded... as in...stopped breathing) once, was hospitalized three times for breathing problems, and a intestinal disorder. My daughters were both hospitalized twice (once together and one time each, separately). This is also not including the NUMEROUS emergency room visits with all three of them. My oldest triplet was diagnosed with Autism and possible epilepsy in the past year. Through hard work, and much prayer, she finally learned to speak. My oldest child started pre school, and I home schooled her all by myself. We went through at least four throwing up illnesses that cycled through the entire family. We had swine flu (yes...ALL of us), regular seasonal flu, stomach flus, food poisoning, sinus infections, countless pink eyes, and a gazillion colds. Our pediatrician knows me by VOICE, that's how often my children and I have been to his office. I swear he sees me, and he sees dollar signs in his eyes! :) In addition to these things, I had surgery to remove tissue in me that had failed, and recuperated from that (my mom and aunt were here to help me...complete and utter life savers) sans husband. I managed the sicknesses, the ten thousand doses of medicine (when divided amongst the kids), the vitamins, the physical therapy, the social therapy, the speech therapy, the pulmonological therapy (that's lung stuff) times two, the intestinal treatments, the laundry, cooking, cleaning, working out, mental stimulation, church activities, and TWO dogs. I did all of this...without my husband here. I never in ten thousand years, would have imagined I would be capable of surviving or handling any of this.

Please do not misunderstand...I am not holding myself up on a pedestal or saying "look at me, I'm great" in any way... I was only able to stand because of my Lord and Savior through all of these experiences, and the blessing of support that has been poured out on me through many wonderful, wonderful church friends. I am only saying, none of these experiences would have happened, if my husband had NOT been in Iraq. Through him being in that country, I learned that I am capable. I CAN do it, and I can have fun and laugh through the whole experience. I learned that I am not as weak as I used to believe that I was. I learned that God is faithful through ANY and ALL situations. I learned more about loving my husband, and honoring him, through this past year than I have learned in the last almost six years we've been married.

So I love Iraq. I love it for becoming a part of our story. I love it for allowing my husband to live there. I love it for the challenges that it has brought in to my life. I love it for NOT conquering my marriage and my sanity. I love it for being a tool from which I have learned so many things...

heaven

Have you ever wondered what God's laughter sounds like? Sometimes I try to picture it in my mind. Standing in the temple, with His BEAUTIFUL robe filling it up, angels crying out "HOLY HOLY HOLY!" and his body sparkling and glowing like jewels. Then I try to picture me standing there...in awe...maybe a little bit frightened...maybe a little excited...probably bawling my eyes out at the sight of such wonders...and then I picture his face breaking out in to a smile...and then laughter...and His arms outstretched beckoning me to come to Him. Have you ever pictured what it would actually feel like to run in to God's arms? To sit on His lap? To hold His hands, and feel His arms wrapped around you? I bet it feels like home. That's what I imagine.

the classics

I find classical music emotional. I know that in today's age, where we consider "music" to be whatever is playing on the local pop radio station, it is controversial for a "young adult" (yes, I still refer to myself as one) to say they actually listen to it. I think classical music is like a beautiful piece of art. How can you go by it, ignore it, not be challenged, moved, or driven to experience emotion by it? I have found myself time and time again, closing my eyes, absorbing the beauty that is displayed in my ears.

The famous classical artists are easy to talk about. Most of us are aware of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, or Fur Elise (one of those songs a gazillion piano players learn to play so they can seem like really hot shot piano players to all of their friends in high school. I know. I was one of them.). There are, however, pieces that might be equally famous, it's just that no one knows what they're called or who wrote them. An example of this, would be Adagio for Strings Op 11 by Samuel Barber. I am listening to it right now. And it incites and develops emotions in me...there are no words. Even now as I sit here and the music flows through my ears and deep in to my spirit... I am whisked away... My mind is drawn to a beautiful field, filled with daisies and a gentle breeze blowing over the top of them. The sun is bathing me in warmth, while I lay on my husband's chest amidst the flowers,listening to the sound of my children run and play, trying to catch grasshoppers. I can almost hear their giggling now. This is my heart's picture of heaven on earth. Just as easily as this beautiful piece of music can take me to such a beautiful place, it can also guide me away to a dark and depraved place. It can carry me back oh so many years to my beautiful triplets bedsides...It can send me back to the night they told me my youngest was not digesting food any more and her body was breaking down and she wasn't doing well. It can cause me to recall the panic I felt as the nurse, doctor, and social worker all came in to the room to "talk to" me. It can bring back the complete punch in the face that I felt as they told me that her large intestine was showing up as dark gray on the X rays (the beginning of bowel death, which leads to infant death), that she was no longer digesting food, and her O2 stats (which had always been immaculate) were dropping. It can reignite the panic I felt as I sat there holding her tiny hand and begged her to fight this, and begged God to not take her away from me, and begged God to make this moment go away... This is what classical music can do.

I have often wished that I would have been granted such a beautiful purpose. I wish that my heart could sore on to the pages of musical score and define and describe, through music, my emotions. I am finding myself less and less capable to put words to feelings. Maybe it's because as I get older, I find the silence more meaningful. Maybe it's because there is a comfort in just knowing, rather than hearing.

I wish I could write music so that I could describe for you what it felt like to run in to my husband's arms on the day he came home. There are not words. There are no synonyms for me to write on this page that could adequately describe the elation. They all marched in, they were released, and I was standing there looking around and I couldn't find him. There was a panic in my heart...where is he? Where is he? And then...just like a perfect pause, or the drums pounding away...the people parted, and there he was. There he was standing in front of me, maybe twenty feet away, and I just ran. I didn't think I would run at all...but there I was. Dead sprint. Running at him with all I had in me. All of a sudden, my flesh felt his flesh, and my arms wrapped around him, and his wrapped around me. My face was pressed against his, and my body was up against his...there were no more internet connections to deal with, or telephones connecting us. It was just a girl with her boy. Two hearts as one flesh. We stood there hugging for a while...he was saying things in my ear, which I will treasure in my heart always. But they're just for me. Sorry...no divulging of that information. I just remember starting to cry. It took me a couple of minutes...but then it just hit me...this is over. This is over. And I wept. I wept in the arms of my soldier, in the arms of my deep, deep love.

This is what I wish I could write music to convey. Those words...they can't convey them the way I wish they could. I can't make you experience the joy, the elation...

So I just sit here...with my iTunes and my classical music. I let it whisk me away, and explain what I can not find words to explain. I pour out my soul, through my ears, and I smile. Because God created someone with that kind of beauty, that kind of capability. I am in awe. I am eternally grateful. This is my sonata.

The closest piece I have ever heard to describe my husband's coming home would be: Berceuse in D-Flat Major, Op. 57: Lullaby by Peter Schmalfuss. This is my heart's love. Go listen to it. It's amazing!