Arrivals

On thanksgiving night the love of my life came home safely from Iraq. I still can't believe I'm writing those words. My brain is so completely emotionally overwhelmed. Sitting right here next to me is the person I love most in this entire world. His comfort, his love, his leadership, has overwhelmingly consumed me. I don't have enough words to say what he means to me. To try to say anything is the grandest understatement. He is perfection.

The past few days we have been readjusting. We have been snuggling, cuddling, playing, and team leading our children. As I write this, I can't make myself stop crying. I was petrified that he wouldn't come back to me.

He lights up my heart. His smile melts my bones. His laugh sends fireworks through my spirit. His embrace... well, I'm sure you can imagine. :)

So why am I writing this? Aside from the typical banter of my gooey lovey sappy chick stuff for this fella. I want to document for my future moments his awesomeness. This weekend, he has completed these random acts of amazingness. For example, I walked into the kitchen to see that he's taken all of my carpet cleaner's attachments and cleaned them. I have not once seen a sink filled with dirty dishes. He tag teamed (without any begging on my part) making sure our oldest completely cleaned her room. He has handled children who are misbehaving, letting me sleep in, picking out, carrying around, tying down, and putting up our Christmas tree (despite his yearly announcements that this year we will buy a fake tree, and never actually forcing me to live with this Christmasy misery). He put lights on the tree, only to discover they didn't work and take them all off. He has played with our children, in the way that only he can do so magically. We have laughed together. I mean, really laughed together, without the delay/echo of phones and internet.

It's been an amazing few days. My heart is overwhelmed. I love this man so much more than I am capable of saying. I have never known a human being to be so amazing. I have never encountered another individual so capable of bringing my heart to such soaring heights. He is everything that I begged God for. I am so happy that he's home.

I am really sick of people's "thankfulness". I realize that's a pretty shocking thing to read, especially considering that I am all about gratitude, however, I am sick of this notion that because thanksgiving occurred, we're all supposed to focus extra attention on gratitude for this period of time. I am annoyed by that. I'm sick of the "30 days of thanksgiving" that people have been doing around me. I mean, should thankfulness have a statute of limitations of 30 days? Should we only be thankful for the month of November? Then we are free to launch right back into the self centered, ego driven mentality that we all employ throughout the rest of the year?

If I'm honest, November embarrasses me. Really, it does. My brother in law posted this comical joke about how  it's ironic that Americans spend a whole day being thankful for what they have, and then they follow it up the very next day with buying new stuff (black friday). It's embarrassing. I think it's embarrassing to sit in my fancy house, with my fancy clothes and my fancy stuff, and my big massive fancy meal and not be burdened by those suffering around me. I think it's embarrassing to start focusing on buying an incredible amount of "stuff" for Christmas, rather than to focus on the people in the world who are starving. I carry those hearts with me. I am so eager for the day when I can run to them and love on them in the physical sense.

I am embarrassed that Thanksgiving's meaning has been changed. I am embarrassed that this country holds no traditions sacred anymore. I am embarrassed that my children are bombarded with imagery and electronicism (totally just made that up), while creativity and activity become things we have to "push" them to do, rather than just standard practice. I am embarrassed that it's against the law in my city, to feed a homeless person, or give them money.

I am so sick of this pseudo-thankfulness that I see going on around me. Are you really truly grateful? Then why do just 30 days of thanksgiving? Why not make it 365?

I am sitting here an emotional basket case. I seriously am a mess. I can't seem to make myself stop crying. What the hell is wrong with me?

A thousand memories of that damned hell hole are blowing through my brain. It hurts. It hurts like hell. It's powerful to hate an entire country. Not it's people. I don't feel any sort of animosity to the people themselves, but the nation. I hate the nation. I hate it's name. I hate the connotations that are awakened in me when I hear the word. To me, Iraq, is a dirty word. It's worse than f*** or b***** or c***. It's the dirtiest of all dirty words. It's a word that arouses murder, destruction, insanity, and complete and utter heartache in my soul.

How do I get over that country? How do I let go of that place? I don't have any idea where to even begin. How do I think of that place without bursting in to tears? So far, it hasn't been possible. That place hurts me. That place haunts me. And I hate it for doing that. I hate that it still plagues me like a nightmare. I hate that it makes me weak.

War is so ugly. It's ugly in ways that I can't even begin to communicate. It's devastating, on all parties involved: the "winners" and the "losers". War, truthfully, only brings loss. There isn't really any way to "win" at war.

What is the cost? How many beautiful people have died? For what? How many marriages destroyed? For what? What was gained? A psychopath was removed, that's true. But it doesn't seem very likely that a non psychopath will take his place, so what gives? Was this worth it?

I am a part of a club. A club of people who have been tortured by this experience. I am a part of a group that no one else can understand, except those who've lived it. It's a club that's filled with battle scarred individuals. We all have combat patches. We all have wounds. We all don't have enough words. We all are hurting.

I am so sick and tired of idiots trying to compare this specific set of combat circumstances to others before. This is NOT Vietnam. This is NOT World War II. To try to compare different combative actions only proves the individual to be a fool. Those are all so uniquely different. How dare anyone try to trivialize or conceptualize this experience, or theirs? WWII and Vietnam were hell on earth. Iraq and Afghanistan are too. But they're their own different doses of heartache. Are we so stupid that we have to try to compete and compare war? Are we so stupid that we have to try to "one up" each other in regards to whom has suffered more?

My God I have no words. I have only tears. I have only tears for those I've loved who've been lost. I have only tears for the widows who are suffering. I have only heartache for the peace that's been destroyed. I have only tears for the PTSD, devastation, suffering, anxiety, destruction... This has been ten years of hell. I imagine it will take at least that long to wrap my brain around it all.

Screw you Iraq. I hate everything that you symbolize in my mind.

I live in a musical household. We are basically a family of singers. In any given hour, you will hear someone singing something at some point. To be honest, singing is so common that I half expect my children to burst in to some song in order to communicate with me, at any given moment.

All four of my children sing. Chief is probably the only one that we ask not to grace us with the singing aspect. I think he's happy to oblige. :) The reason why I am writing about this, is that two of my children are currently singing a portion of mass: Kyrie Eleison. They sing it often. It warms my heart.

Consummatum est.

Welcome home. It's the craziest set of two words to even be contemplating, let alone facing, right now with the lobster. Welcome home. What? Didn't he just leave? I mean, wasn't it just four months ago that I was unwrapping my body from his and watching him walk away from me?

The Army has consistently not given me deployment presents. Deployments have been extended. Goodbye days have been moved up. Dwell time has been shortened. Communication has been worse than anticipated. When it comes to deployments, the Army and I don't have the happiest of track records. So when the President announced that all the soldiers would be leaving Iraq, I smiled that he would be out of the country that almost killed me, and assumed the next big hill to climb would be heading my way. I have lived this life for quite a while now and I know to expect the unexpected. Except that the unexpected in this life is negative. It means that things change, but they change for the worse, not the better.

To be honest, I can't believe that I have spent that past three weeks making welcome home banners, posters, cards. I can't believe that I have worked on preparing barracks for soldiers from our company to move in to. I can't believe that my husband is safely out of what I consider to be my heart's hell hole. I can't believe this is all coming to an end.

It's difficult to process. It's emotional in a way that I don't know how to describe. For some of you dear readers, you know what it means. You know what that country has cost me. You know. So here I sit, trying to wrap my brain around all of this. Here I sit trying to comprehend how I feel.

I asked the lobster to save the uniform he was wearing when he left that place for the last time. I plan to have it framed, along with his boots and dog tags, and the last picture ever taken of him in that place. I plan to have some sort of purging, letting go, moving on ceremony with the lobster. Maybe we'll write down the things that country stole from us. Maybe we'll sit on our back porch, sipping wine and just journeying down the memory lane of Iraq.

When he walks off of that airplane, and he walks into my arms, one thing is for certain, this welcome home is the most significant in a number of ways. It didn't win. The war, the country, the place didn't win. It didn't destroy us. It didn't conquer us, and I promise you it tried. It tried with all of the ugliness that it could muster. It tried and failed. And I will cry. I will seriously cry. I will probably cry harder than I've ever cried. I will breathe differently. I will feel lighter. I will wrap my arms around him and rejoice because I can finally say for good and forever that it. is. finished.

Don't hesitate, communicate!

Communication is such an incredibly powerful word. The lack of it can cause the greatest of destruction. Ineffective communication can lead to misunderstanding, resentment, hostility. It always ends up having a trickle down effect and causing the breakdown of relationships. To communicate effectively is incredibly important. I think it can actually be the most important aspect of humanity, second only to love.

I am often times surrounded by people who are either so stressed, or so overwhelmed, or so frustrated that their communication has reached a breakdown point. When we allow emotions to rule our verbiage, we put ourselves at great risk. Sometimes the risk is a beautiful one, as in when we lovingly, passionately, plead with our loved one to make a better choice, or to realize we're "the one". Other times it can cause the complete loss of that which matters to us: allow rage/anger to guide your mouth and watch what happens.

The truth is, most of us have forgotten the art of thinking before we speak. Most of us have gotten so caught up in the hollywood mood boob that we can almost hear the soundtrack playing in our minds as we embark on our hollywood journey of emotional outbursts. Except, why do the stories almost always turn out so perfectly in the movies and so horrifically in real life? Um... because it isn't real!

The reality behind communication is that it's messy. You can't always predict how people will react. You don't always know the reasons behind why someone is saying what they're saying. You can't just assume that they're thinking or feeling one way unless you've asked.

The reality is that when you stop giving people the benefit of the doubt, you choose to assume the worst in them and you immediately build up a barrier between them and you. You immediately stop the free flow of love.

I work so hard on a daily basis to assume the best in people. I work hard at this because it's required of me. Every day I communicate with people who are overwhelmed, over stressed, over panicked, over worried, over impatient, over defensive, or over whatever else it is, and bring it to my table. Do I have moments when I've had enough and I just have to step back? You bet I do. I have a lot of them. But do I also have moments when I get to see the good and beauty behind people's overwhelming emotions as well? Yes.

I get so frustrated sometimes when people try to read into my thoughts, my perspectives, my emotions. I work hard to communicate exactly what I'm thinking/feeling when I'm ready to. I am not the type of individual who just callously sits around silent and then blabbers to everyone else what I'm thinking. When I see problems I need addressed, I address them. I don't like to fight.

I realize that there are people on this earth that need a cause. I know that God has wonderfully created individuals who need to have something to stand up for, to argue against, wrongs that they can right. To be honest, the older the get, the less energy I have for that. I think that the older I become the more I realize that my husband and my children are the only things that are genuinely worth fighting for. Everything else is absolutely worth loving, but fighting for? No.

I'm sure you're sitting there going, now seriously, how the heck did she go from communication to love and fighting and worth fighting things for and what!? I promise you that there is a back story here, I just know better than to say it out loud. I'm sorry. I know I just now had you all revved up to read a story and now I've just cut you off. I'm a story tease. I apologize.

There's this prayer that I pray which says "God give me the grace to effectively communicate." I love that prayer. Because I love recognizing before God that speaking can create all sorts of mess and ugliness if it isn't done from a pure heart. I also love the reminder that every time I talk, someone is listening, even if it feels like no one is. The trick of talking is to make sure that love of the individual is your guide. When there is no love, words are almost always ugly. When words are ugly, communication is an incredibly destructive force.

There is a confusing hustle and bustle within my spirit. The past two days have been a haze of ultra stomach sickness the details of which I will spare you. This latest addition to the plague that has been haunting me brings my sick total of days to over a month. I finally had an emotional break down when my children called my mom and said she needed to come. My mom asked if I needed her to and I just started to cry. I am so sick of being sick.

My house is in desperate need of cleaning. In fact, we've reached the critical level here. I have cut back and cut back on activities to allow my body time to rest and heal, but we're getting to the point where everything is in critical need. I was so upset. I was so frustrated. I was overwhelmed. I wanted two people: my husband or my mom, and they're both far away. So I had a pity party, and I sat in my red chair and cried.

I am better today. Well, better on the stomach front anyway. I've been able to keep down some saltine crackers and plenty of 7up, which is much better than yesterday. I also was able to manage to not sleep the entire day away. Thank God the kids are older and they managed to keep DVDs going for long enough to let me sleep as much as my body needed to.

Tonight I am sitting here sulking. I miss the lobster. I miss him so much that my skin hurts. My bones ache for him. I haven't talked to him in almost a week. I know he's busy, and I know he doesn't want to spend the money on calling cards, or all of the other communication forms which require spending money. I know what his logic is. I understand what he's doing. It just sucks. It hurts.

Veteran's Day

When I reflect on what Veteran's Day means to me, I honestly struggle to find words. Okay, I don't really struggle to find words exactly. I can communicate adequate sentences which convey how much I adore and am amazed by my soldier. In fact, that's the easiest aspect of Veteran's Day emotion for me to explain. The lobster really is, in every way my hero. I have an incredible amount of respect for his love, loyalty, passion, and honor in regards to the job that he has. This life has never been "just a job" to him. He has faithfully, and dutifully, served his country. I am humbled to help support him in that endeavor. I am honored that I get to play a small part in this wonderful world of the Army.

What I struggle with communicating, are my words in regards to the other aspects of this day. The soldiers who have died. I don't have words to explain how I feel. I can't put into words what the sacrifices of some of my best friends mean to me. How those gifts of life grieve me. How those spouses have managed to carry on have inspired me. What words could I possibly say? My heart loves the gold star families. My spirit is permanently linked to one special gold star wife. When I think of her, my whole being is encouraged and inspired. Of all the women I have ever known, she has given me the most strength, the greatest comfort, and the highest encouragement. I know that she knows how deeply I love her. I also know that she knows how much the lobster and I talk about, cherish, and remember her beautiful husband. I know we're not supposed to call dudes "beautiful", but to have known Yoe is to understand that beautiful defines the soul, and his soul is crazy beautiful.

What do I say about the most amazing company of spouses, parents and siblings that I have had the pleasure of being the FRG leader for? This company that we are currently serving with... I don't have words to say. I wish I did. I love these families. I grieve when they're grieving. I get excited when they have babies. I worry about them. I want to encourage them. I fight for them. I will keep on fighting for them. How could I not? We are in this crazy experience together! We have pried our fingers off of our soldiers and watched them walk away, together. We have laughed, bickered, teased, coffee'd, been frustrated, questioned, and waited, together. I love each of these families in ways I can't describe.

What can I say about our unit's "extended" family? I have been so blessed to meet some of the most amazing women within the unit's leadership team. These women are who keep everything going back here. Honestly. People gripe a lot of about what FRG's are not doing right, but they rarely sit and think about how incredibly time consuming it is TO do it "right", especially when you factor in that ALL of it is done voluntarily. It takes an incredible amount of passion, love, and dedication to spend the hours that are required, every day, to support and maintain an FRG. Not to mention, that all of these women are doing this with their soldiers deployed too, and their children needing attention too, and their worries and fears about their soldier too, and their job/time constraints as well. I literally love these people!

What can I say about the men who have led my soldier safely through five deployments? I mean, seriously, what can I possibly say about them? That I love them? Um, yup! That I will always love them? Um, yup! Even the ones who were douche bags, I still love them for being a part of the group that my soldier was deployed and returned home safely with. How can I possibly say what they have given to me? Seriously? Where could I even slightly begin?

What can I say about all of the soldiers we have known? Our amazing friends and family members, who have been (or still are) fighting the fight and defending the country flabbergast me. I am honored and humbled to have known so many of you. I am thankful for all you have done.

So Veteran's Day is emotional. It's powerful and sentimental and beautiful. It isn't about BBQ's, or "sleeping in" or going to a party. It is the day when I sit down and genuinely think about the people who have largely impacted me, many of whom have no idea the degree to which they have. It's the day when I sit here and think to myself Wow. I am really lucky that I get to share in such a tiny part of this amazing experience. I am incredibly blessed that I get to live among so many heroes. I am so thankful that I get to love so many who have freely chosen to give so much of themselves to this country. Wow.

My Dad

Tonight I was terrified. I was caught up in the fear of imagining life without Chief and I was so sad. I don't get this way often, and to be honest I felt incredibly alone. I knew immediately exactly who I wanted to talk to. I wanted to talk to the one person who can always make me laugh when I ask him to. I wanted to talk to the one person who doesn't tell me to "stop thinking that way" or to "snap out of it" or to "trust God more." I wanted to talk to my Dad.

My Dad is not my dad because of genes. In fact, he and I don't share any. He and I do not have the same blood running through our veins. My Dad married my mother when I was just over three years old. When he married her, he fulfilled the greatest of vows to love, honor and cherish, not only her but also me. Let me tell you that in my life, fulfill them, he has done.

I am a daddy's girl in every way. In my world my dad is the greatest of heroes. There are a thousand reasons why he's my hero. For starters, despite the fact that I'm not genetically his child (and he does have his own "biological" children), my Dad has always treated me like his blood. He has always believed me, even when I lied, he's told me when I was being a jerk to some boy, he's given the "speech" to every single one of my serious boyfriends (and done it so successfully that they've all left terrified of him after the encounter and NEVER said what he told them), comforted me from heartbreak, fought with me (when I deserved it), fought for me (when I needed it), and loved me, despite my flaws.

My dad makes me laugh. I've heard time and time again, that I'm a lot like him. I think that's quite a compliment. When I think of my dad a few token words come to mind: hilarious (he really is), thoughtful, and loyal. My dad is fiercely loyal. I have always wanted to emulate that.

So tonight, in this complete moment of brokenness and vulnerability, I took to my dad the things that I was afraid of. I said "Dad, will you make me laugh?" and he immediately started acting silly (and I immediately started laughing). I told him why I was sad, and he immediately filled my heart with heavenly wisdom, fatherly strength, and humanly courage.

I don't think he'll ever know what he means to me. I don't think he'll ever be able to understand how much I admire him. I don't think he'll ever know how comforting it is to know that he's always got my back. He makes me braver, because I can feed off of his bravery. He makes me trust God more, because he so beautifully displays that trust in God. He accepts me. He encourages me. He supports me. I'm a stronger person because of him.

I love you Daddy. Thank you for choosing to love me so wonderfully.

Our introduction to parenthood.

When I was fifteen years old (give or take some years) I was diagnosed with severe endometriosis. I was told I would most likely never be able to have children. The scar tissue was enough to make it that even IVF would probably result in failure. So I wrapped my teenaged brain around the idea that I would never be a mother.

I went about my merry way and got married. Not right then, several years later. Because I was not supposed to be able to get pregnant, lets just say that "birth control" or some variant of that were far from my mind. At that time I had no moral opposition to birth control (I do now), but we just didn't use it. So about two and a half weeks after being married the "time of women" was late. A week late to be exact. I thought this was odd, because it was physically impossible for me to have gotten pregnant prior to my being married (unless God decided to create another miraculous birth, but I highly doubt that), and we had only been shaggalaging for a short period of time. Nevertheless the lobster pointed out that certain female assets had gotten bigger and then stated that he thought I was pregnant. Due to my belief that I was unable to conceive I thought this was pretty ridiculous. I took a test simply to oblige him. I genuinely did believe that it would be negative.

I went into the bathroom and did the "deed". Waited in there for the results, so that I could walk out and tell him "I TOLD YOU!!!!" Well, there was no need to wait the 2 minutes, that sucker was positive immediately. I opened that bathroom door walked right up to him and punched him square in the gut. Yes, yes I did. I went violent. Then I screamed at him "YOU GOT ME PREGNANT!" The worlds largest smile washed over his face. I swear, on some level, he was incredibly proud of himself. He probably thought "Yes! My man seed is SO potent that it can cut right through that scar tissue BS and implant itself in her uterus." While he sat there smiling and saying "Yay" I started to cry. Literally. This was not exciting news. I was devastated. I had plans. I had goals. I did not intend to have children. Children were going to come through adoption after medical school, after my residency was finished, when life was more "settled". They were not going to come from my body before medical school even began, a week before my husband was going to deploy.

He tried his best to comfort me. I started shaking (this is what I do when I'm panicking). I think he tried to hug me because I have a memory of pushing him away from me and saying "haven't you done enough to me!?"

I called my mom and told her. I was literally freaking out. Apparently my entire family believed that I was slutty enough to have gotten knocked up before we got married, and they anticipated this phone call as soon as they heard I was getting married. It is important to forgive them this horrible assumption as they know nothing of the military and the fact that rush weddings were incredibly common in a world where deployments were happening at the drop of a dime.

The lobster called his parents and told them and they were excited. His dad came into town that day to say his goodbye's before Chief deployed. That day Lolli's first baby gift was purchased: a lamb that spoke the words to "Now I lay me down to sleep". We still have it.

That day I was completely shocked. It was my first introduction to God having a completely different plan for my life than what I had imagined. I was blessed to bond with my firstborn in so many beautifully unique ways while her father was deployed. When he came home, she was almost five months old. She was my first child miracle. She is still the light of my heart. I have never encountered a child like her. She is filled with a spiritual wisdom and understanding that can only come from the God who miraculously created her.

It seems like yesterday that she was born. Can't believe that was almost seven years ago.

I'm sitting her in my grandpa's chair sipping hot coco from your favorite giant coffee cup. You know the one I'm talking about, the City of Los Angeles Starbucks one with the blue and white downtown LA outline. I miss you Chief. I mean, I really miss you. I've been forced to lay around all day and all that ends up happening is that I think about that you are not here and I feel sad. Everything feels so different from four months ago.

I have this feeling of impending doom. I know you probably think it's silly, and I suppose it is in a lot of ways. Feelings are not indications of what's to come. Feelings are manifestations of what we hope for, or fear. I fear you not coming home alive. I fear a world without you by my side. I fear raising our children alone. I fear having to make decisions without your wisdom. I fear not being strong enough to resist peer pressure, or to resist making stupid decisions. I fear life without you.

I have my limitations. Today I was supposed to be resting in bed. I obliged up until about an hour ago and then I felt more energized than I've felt in the past eight million years, and I went and cleaned my daughters' room. Can we say one whole bag of broken toys and trash!? I was flabbergasted! I don't understand why little kids are so lazy that they don't put things away as they dirty or break them. I seriously just don't get it.

I laid around all day. I've been dutifully taking the medications prescribed. I have consumed, up to right now, a gallon of water, and I will continue drinking until I fall asleep. I have weathered the hot flashes (seriously, hot flashes...apparently those are common when you have pneumonia), been patiently (okay, really impatiently) bored all day long, and I had a moment of complete weakness and cleaned. I hope that I don't wake up tomorrow morning more sick than I was before, but I really am feeling better!

We'll see how it goes.

True Confession

Of all people in my life, I have given you the least amount of credit deserved. I have fought you the hardest, felt the most betrayed, been the most resentful. I have girded up my loins and gone to war with you, deemed your opinion worthless, and rejected you. I have not given a thought about what you needed or wanted, instead demanding that you give what I needed. I have painted a picture, drawn the line, mapped out the road and you were going to follow it come hell or high water.

I hate you smoking. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I hate the smell of it. I hate the taste of it. I hate the cost of it. I hate the death of it. I hate that I can't make you stop. I hate that my ability to combat addiction isn't capable of fighting yours. I hate that your smoking, is my greatest weakness. I hate that it makes me resent you. 

Fear makes me hate your addiction. Fear creeps in and dominates the conversation, like the elephant in the room: what on earth would I do without you? What if our children think it's okay to do it too? What if I end up surrounded by a pool of addicts? What if my love is not strong enough to keep all of us together?

The thing is, that I have never really factored you into the equation. What if you smoke to fight away some horrible demons that invaded your brain when you first stepped foot in that country? What if you smoke instead of sniff, or drink, or abuse? What if you smoke because you need to feel like that rebel that you spent so many years being, hasn't died or completely disappeared? What if you smoke so that you don't cheat, or lie, or steal? Or you smoke so that you can be "bad boy" enough to keep me interested?

It hurt me that you spent over a year smoke free only to start again. I'm not going to lie. To be honest, I don't know how to love you enough to not hate you smoking. I'm too selfish. I want you around. I want to wake up thirty years from now, next to you and your happily functioning heart and lungs. I want it to be me and you sitting around with our grandchildren telling stories of our pasts. I want you to be the one holding me while I disintegrate when our children move away from our home. I want you to be the person I go camping with, hiking with, fear-of-heights conquering with, exploring my dangerous side with, laughing with, loving with. I want it to be you that I have gray hair and wrinkles with. 

No one knows how to love me like you do. Literally. Not a single person walking this earth, knows how to love me like you. It's amazing, completely flabbergasting, that I was so blessed to be joined with you. You love me like no other person. You lift me up, encourage me, challenge me, defend me, support me, love me, I mean really love me with all that you are. In a world filled with so many little boys, you stand tall as the greatest of men. What God has created in you humbles me. There is an awesomeness in you that can't be described. I am the luckiest woman in the world. I am the most blessed among women that this white spice rack gets to be your Mrs lobster...

So, I'm a bastard. I'm an asshole for not loving you enough to let this go. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I will try with all my might, to be as supportive as I can. Please forgive my passive aggressive comments, my overtly aggressive comments, my threats of forcing you to eat vegan, my bribes, begs, attitudes, resentments. Please forgive my silent treatments, my anger, and my inability to simply say "I love you. I'll love you no matter what. I'll keep right on choosing you every day. I'm just so scared of losing you." And as I write this, I literally can hear your voice saying "I already have..."

My funny Charlemagne.

I'd like to introduce you to my little firecracker. Her name is Charchee. Well, it's not her real name (we're not weird celebrities. Apple anyone?), but it's a nickname that has sort of stuck with her since she was incredibly tiny.

She was born incredibly tiny. She was considered to be what is called a micro premie. A micro premie is a baby that was born under a certain size and weight. Her stats weighed in at 2lbs 13oz and she was 12.5" long. She. was. tiny. I still remember the image of her with this premie sized pacifier in her mouth: it literally covered her entire face. She was so small that her blood pressure cuff was the size of a small bandaid (you know, the skinny ones). I still have it, if you need proof.

Charchee has been a fighter since birth. She was the last of the triplets to come out of my body. She was also the only one who was never intubated, or in need of oxygen (there was one time when she had the early stages of bowel death where they put a nasal canula on her, but this was precautionary only and she never required the use of assisted breathing). Charchee was in the NICU for 7 weeks. She would have come home with her brother and sister, but her bone marrow had a harder time producing red blood cells, and she became dangerously anemic. She had to have a procedure where they took all of her blood out of her body, and replaced it with healthy blood. Because of this, they required her to stay an additional 7 days in the hospital to ensure no infection occurred and that her body was adapting.

She was the first of the triplets that I was allowed to hold. She was three days old when I was allowed to finally hold her in my arms. I remember the moment so miraculously because I had been anxious to hold them all for what felt like forever. They handed me this massive bundle (she literally was covered in blankets, a hat, basically cold weather gear). When they put her in my arms, I was shocked by the weight of her. Or maybe it would be better to say, the lack of weight while holding her. She weighed nothing. Her skin was translucent. But I treasured that 15 minutes that I was allowed to feel somewhat normal. I absorbed it with all that I had. The lobster was there and he didn't try to claim holding privileges. He said to me that he knew I needed to hold her more than he did (we were only allowed one 15 minute period of holding per day and that was based entirely on whether or not her body had been struggling to maintain its temperature that day--if it was struggling, no holding). He stood there over by Pinot's incubator while I held her. I think he didn't want to hold her because he was afraid. The entire time the triplets were in the NICU, the lobster was immensely emotionally withdrawn. Maybe it was a defense mechanism. He needed to maintain his distance until he knew they weren't going to die anymore. For him, it was almost as if they weren't born. I hated him for that, back then. I hated that he wasn't broken, hurting, aching, devastated with me. I was too damaged to realize that he was being that way for me. If we both disintegrated then who would have been strong enough to hold our family together? And I seriously disintegrated. I was completely insane for about a year and a half. I didn't care about anything. I was just "functioning" and barely that.

In the NICU Charchee was completely chill. She did, however, wear her emotions on her sleeve. There was one day where I was holding her and she went from frowning, to smiling, to frowning, to smiling, over and over again. She did it for about five minutes. It was so funny. She pulled out about five PIC lines (these are IV's that are threaded directly into the major artery of the heart. They are considered a surgical procedure to have installed, and it's a massively long IV), endless regular IV's (when the nurses finally gave up on putting PIC lines in her), feeding tubes, and basically anything that "tied her down." She was bound and determined to be free.

Charchee was also funny baby. She loved her Auntie's Virgin Mary blanket, which Tonio had given to her. She would cry and cry until Tia wrapped her up in that huge furry green blanket. Jules used to wrap her up in it and prop her up on her bed while she did her hair and makeup. I would go in the and say "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" and Jules would say "What? She's fine! She likes it!" Maybe that was the first sign of the type of child I would have.

When Charchee was littler, she would walk out into the living room, stand there with her feet apart, hands on the hips, look around at what everyone was doing and say "What are you doing?" with authority. She never wanted to be held, unless it was her idea. But there were moments of complete beautiful vulnerability where she would let her guard down. There was one morning, after the trips had moved up to twin beds, when I walked into her room in the morning and found her and her brother snuggled in bed together. They both had their blankabies and their fingers in their mouths, faces touching, passed out. It was so cute. That was back when they were two, before the boy was moved to his own room.

Charchee has had her fair share of sicknesses. She's been in the hospital a gazillion times for uncontrollable vomiting. She used to turn purple for no known reason (which also invited a hospital stay). She has underactive sweat glands, so she overheats at the drop of a dime. She has a skin condition which they are calling exzema, but doesn't function on any level like normal exzema.

Charchee is the most incredibly girly girl I have ever known. She loves clothes, fashion, high heels, nail polish, pretty hair bows, dresses, skirts, make up, doing her hair, and on and on. I have a plethora of pictures where the girl is walking around in her play high heels, playing. She is constantly asking if she looks pretty. Heaven forbid Brun should get the "prettier" dress first on Sunday mornings.

When the lobster left, my hilarious firecracker died inside. Her flame, her spark, her happiness disappeared in an instant. It took a while for it to hit her. She was actually quite normal until we came home from California. I remember, about half way through our trip, it started reaching her. She said to me "Mom, I want to go home. Daddy is there. I don't like it here." That was the first time I heard her say she didn't like something. The day we got on the airplane to go home, she told everyone in the airport that she was "going home to see her daddy." It didn't matter that I told her that wasn't the case. She would not be convinced. So when we walked into our house and daddy wasn't here....

She was so angry. She couldn't be consoled. I was panicked and lost. I tried talking to her, having her talk to other people, reaching out to her, nothing worked. There was a moment when it finally hit me: Charchee grieves like me. We both shut down. We both become irritable. We both have to process our grief in our own unique ways. We both can't talk about it until we're ready. We both lash out until that moment comes. We both are broken, intense individuals. That was the first moment I saw our similarities with such clarity. It also changed my perspective on her grief.

The biggest turning point in our relationship came when one night we went on an adventure. We ended up shopping (which is outside of my comfort zone), and she helped me pick out some new clothes. This four year old child lit up like a Christmas tree. You'd have thought I gave her the world. She was having the time of her life. It was rejuvenating for both of us. She helped me to remember what it means to value my appearance in a more modern way, and I helped her to not feel so alone.

The past couple of weeks with Charchee have been amazing. She is my little firecracker again. She is outgoing, bossy, helpful, charming, and silly all over again. She came up to me today and said "Mommy, will you hug me?" This is music to my ears!

Charchee is a force to be reckoned with. She is beautiful, smart, and determined. Look out world. This chick rocks!

sickness and all saints day

I have a "to do" list that seems to be growing longer by the second. Each minute I sit here, more and more things for me to do pile on. It's not that these things are overwhelming me. They're not. They are simple tasks that I can easily accomplish. It's just that I have been sick, I mean really sick for the past week and a half, and I am not getting any better. This morning, the lobster announced that it was "time" for me to "take it easy." It's nice when lobsters announce that! :) So, instead of tackling errands, cleaning and organizing, today I sat in my (also my grandfather's) red chair and vegged. I've tackled drinking hot tea every hour on the hour, hot soup for all meals, and approximately two gallons of water. I am determined to get better quickly! I must admit, the coughing spells are mellowing out, and my nose isn't running faster than the speed of sound (plus I'm not on any decongestants), which is positive. But my glands are still so swollen that it's difficult to swallow, I have a headache that still hasn't gone away, and my lungs hurt from the constant coughing.

Today is all saints day, and because I'm sick, we didn't go to church. However, I spent a large part of this day thinking of those people I've loved who have passed away. Here I sit in my grandfather's chair, mourning. I miss him. I wish he was near to me in more than just memories. I wish I had fought harder to show him Truth. I wish I had done more. I know that today is the day to honor those believers who have passed away, but for me, I feel consumed by thoughts of him. I loved him tremendously so. I love him so much more than I know how to say. I think about him constantly and I miss talking to him. I was so blessed to be able to bond with him throughout the lobster's deployments/training/nights away. I was blessed to have been able to share the experiences of war and the military with him. I am thankful for so much encouragement that he gave to me, especially because he is the only member of my family who has ever really been able to encourage me in living this lifestyle. Is that what made the connection so powerful? Was it because he is the only one who made me feel supported? It seems strange to recognize that. It also seems sad. I just miss him. I miss him so very much.