A Shifting Heart

It appears that my heart does not know what to make of an empty house once blessed bedtime rolls around and kids are "quietly" tucked away "for the evening". I am beginning to feel strangely accustomed to the quiet house and the nights to myself, but at the same time, I continue to get restless after 8 pm, and I still consider this part of the day to be the hardest. It's odd not having Paul around to talk with. I miss the simple contact that a close loved one brings: the gentle touches, the hand-holding. I get close contact with the kids, obviously, but it's not the same. I miss hugs.

However, I find that this separation has brought more good things than bad so far. And I am so happy and relieved that I can say that. Though I miss Paul terribly, sometimes to the point where I find myself wallowing in a very impressive pity-party indeed, I've had so much time to think and reevaluate the person that I am outside of Paul. The lines have become blurred between our own identities and our identity as a couple (at least for me they have), which is not necessarily a bad thing, but can leave you in an awkward position when part of your assumed identity moves 9 time zones away.

I have a verse that I believe was put in my path for a reason now taped on my wall in my dining room, where I would see it the most. I came across it in a book that I had ordered for Paul that, despite having paid for expedited shipping, came a few days after he left. I meant to send it to him straight-away, but started reading instead. It's a book that recounts the stories of individuals in the military that have experienced God in outstanding ways. A few of these stories are from wives of military men. One such author recounted a verse that had helped her through some hard transitions:

"She is clothed in strength and dignity. She can laugh at the days to come."

-Proverbs 31:25

That verse can be likened to a divine slap in the face. I quickly sat down and wrote it on a piece of paper and fastened it to the wall where I knew I would see it the most. There have been several moments where I could feel the stress start to boil over where that verse would catch my eye and calm the storm. I've joined a Bible study (that offers FREE CHILDCARE. Did you just have a heartattack when you read that? If not, than you don't understand JUST HOW AMAZING THAT IS) that is studying the book of Romans. I've pulled out my Bible, which was shamefully dusty due to lack of use, and started to delve my way through it once more. My Greek textbooks have been taken off of the shelves and put to some use. I'm using parts of my brain that havn't been touched in YEARS. And my heart is responding readily, hungrily.

I know where my strength is coming from. It is not with a blind eye that I feel myself growing, becoming stronger mentally, spiritually, and yes, physically. I know my Good Lord has come into this house to fill the emptyness, and in doing so has blown the roof off of my heart.

Growing up.

For as long as I can remember (or should I say, for as long as I have cared), I have never, EVER felt my age. Perhaps I was feeling exactly how my age should feel, but I never felt how I thought others of that age appeared to feel. Does that make sense? Probably not.

Anyway- never felt my age. This has been more true since I've become a mother. I have never felt old enough, mature enough, ready enough to be a mother. And of TWO children, no less.

Because of this, somewhere way deep down, I did not have high expectations of myself with this deployment. I was expecting myself to fail. To burn the house down. To miss some significant sign in one my children that would lead to some devestating illness. To forget to feed the dog. Anything.

But in reality, I've surprised myself. I've handled it. It's only been two weeks... but it's been two weeks. And I've faced sickness after sickness, our furnace going out, an outlet just about setting my house on fire, and the loss of power all together. And through it all, I've managed. I've done what needed to be done. I've fed the dog. And as I sit in my clean house, smelling the soup that's been brewing in our crock pot since the power was turned back on, I finally feel my age. I feel like a mother. I feel like I am earning, bit by bit, the right to give my children advice that they probably won't take anyway. I feel like an adult. Which considering I have been legally an adult for about 7 years, it feels pretty darn good.

Blessing in a dark, dirty, rotten, horrible disguise.

I don't even know where to begin. This past week has been the hardest since I have had children, which is saying a lot considering I've been through the newborn "sleepless in St. Louis" stage twice in a very short amount of time. But I am so thankful that it happened this way, I can't even begin to explain. Talk about God giving you what you need, and not exactly what you want.

It started a few short days after Paul left. Alex was starting to feel a little warm, and starting to slow down just a little bit. The night before my father was to drive home, he noticed that his throat was a bit sore. If only I had seen this coming. Although it's good that I didn't. The next morning, Dad left, Alex was a bit more cranky, Eli was having some serious skin issues which was making him ANGRY BABY. Fast forward to that night, and the kids were waking each other up with their ANGRY WAILS every half hour. My mom and I were tag-teaming as best we could, and I was taking breaks here and there to weep helplessly in a corner. I was trying (and failing) to convince myself that the next four months would not be THIS. They would be normal with my two normal babies who smiled and loved mommy instead of yelling at her and throwing up on her. Again, failing.

I've started a tradition where each night I cross off the day, marking one step closer to when Paul gets home. Saturday is blacked out. Scribbled into darkness, so I can pretend it never happened.

Mom and I laughed nervous laughs all day Sunday, not wanting to talk about the night before. We couldn't help but remember it, however, as we stared at each other's enormous bags under our eyes. It was undeniable that that was the single worse night since I've become a parent. I cringed as I put the kids to bed that night, waiting for the first to wake up and morph into ANGRY BABY again. They did each have a turn or two getting up that night, but it was nothing like the first. Mom and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Monday morning, I wake up and feel like death. I can't swallow anything, even my own saliva. Talking hurts. Turning my head hurts. I see my doctor that day, he takes one look at my throat and asks when I was exposed to Strep. Lovely. So I start some meds for that, and three days later, what do you know! Itchy hands! I am not sure what happened to my body when Eli came into this world, but something must have shifted. I've never had a problem with medicine before him, and now, since he's been born, I have had THREE different reactions to THREE different medicines. This last one was a penicillin based medicine, and my doctor just laughed and said, "You are getting awfully hard to treat."

The kids seemed to be getting better. Eli's skin stopped falling off (always a good thing). Alex appeared to be better, but was still a little slow. After have been told by my pediatrician several times that both Alex and Eli were too young to get strep, I brought Alex in anyway, and what do you know, she tested positive. So now I have the task at convincing her that the pink goo that I am shooting into her mouth twice a day is in fact enjoyable and not something to run away from me laughing every time you see me open the fridge (which is where it's kept).

So, I was feeling better after my various medicines. And then Eli got a cold. And now I have a cold. And a sneaking suspicion that the strep virus that is currently residing in my throat is laughing in the face of the medicine I am currently on.

But like I said. Blessing in disguise. I am on my own now, mom left yesterday. And now I know FOR A FACT that because I survived this past week, the following 3 and a half months will be incredibly easy.

Thank you Lord.

One day at a time.

Well, January 14th came and went. It was by far my worst day so far this year (which makes me have hope--get it out of the way early!). The few days leading up to it were soaked in an energy that was both sad as we saw the date approaching with a unyielding resilience, and eager as we went out of our way to take advantage of every moment we had together as a family. In a way, this whole deployment thing has really bound Paul and I more tightly to each other, as well as the kids, which I didn't think was possible. We were thrust back into the honeymoon stage, if I can call it that, where we couldn't help but hold out our hands as we passed one another in the kitchen, the hallway, the fruit aisle in the grocery store. We did it without thinking, our subliminal minds just checking to make sure the other was still in reach. But Thursday would come, and when it did, we had to walk in different directions in front of a few dozen strangers who were saying their own muffled goodbyes in front of airport security. My legs seemed unwilling to cooperate as I forced them out what ended up being the wrong exit, and even more unwilling as I forced them to circle me around the parking lot for about ten minutes before I found my car. I had sunglasses on to cover the streams coming from my eyes, but I think the low gasps and moans escaping my mouth would have given me away anyway, had there been anyone to see. Paul and I have lived away from family for so long, depending soley on each other for the type of familial relationships that I believe humans need in order to survive, that being seperated from him now seems unnatural, against the order of things.

That being said, these first few days have been an adjustment. I don't think I could have readied myself for this no matter how hard I tried. It just had to happen, and now I just have to move on and get things done. Through the wonderful technology of today, I get to not only talk to Paul, but I also get to SEE him via Skype (which... if you are not signed on with Skype yet, do it.). He gets to wave to the kids, and they get to wave back (or in Eli's case, stare intently). I don't have to wait 6 weeks to get a letter, than wait 6 weeks for him to receive his. We are blessed in the time we live in.

For now, I have my wonderful mother here to help, which I am grateful for. It will be another adjustment when she leaves, but at least the fall wasn't so far for now. And I have my circle here in St. Louis, who have all been so present and ready to help that I have the type of gratitude towards them that bubbles up and out and of me it's so powerful.

We'll be ok. And heck, we are already two days down! 118 to go. Progress is progress.