GAINS AND LOSSES

Gains and losses, in military terms, refers to the constant flow of people coming in and out of a squadron. As members arrive with their families, we gain. We gain a unit member, who, along with their family (if they have one), become our extended squadron family —at least for a while.

We gain responsibility for each other. On an overseas base, in a time when our military members are stretched thinner than ever, family support is crucial. The need to reach out to each other is at an all-time high. We try diligently to keep on top of our gains and losses.

Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we gain a friend.

The Army is known for a very high rate of deployment. This fact is oft-reported news. With our “quiet professionals,” all those who comprise special operations, it’s a fact understood mostly just by us. Our Air Force members here are in constant motion. And when they hit the ground running, sometimes (often) their family must fend for themselves.

This can be lonely, and this is when the role of the rest of the squadron, comprised of spouses, comes into play. We are supposed to look out for each other.

And we try.

The Air Force in recent years formalized its Key Spouse program under the guise of Suzie Schwartz. She is spouse to General Norton Schwartz, USAF chief of staff. She was here last week. I was in the audience of spouses with whom she met on RAF Mildenhall.

So much of what she said was so near my emotional core and sensibilities. I think many of us — those who serve silently and without compensation next to our active-duty partners — are cut from similar cloth; the sturdy, flexible kind.

But not always.

Again — we gained formality to a program that has existed in some form for some time. But, in the end, we are all too human. We are not perfect, or omniscient. Sometimes we do not know, even though we, as Key Spouses, are trained to be watchful and look for signs of an impending loss.

Last week we lost. We lost a spouse. We did not know.

My daughter came home from school to let me know her classmate’s mommy died the night before. Her friend found her Mommy. Her daddy was “at work.” This news was delivered by the school counselor at the end of the day. She said it wasn’t hard to figure out, because there were only two people absent that day. The counselor used the term “suicide.”

My daughter is nine.

It turns out our Daddy was at work with her Daddy. They worked together. Different squadrons; same group of quiet professionals. Minutes after my daughter told me,  the phone rang. It was our Daddy letting us know the “unofficial” news.

We lost.

Usually, losses are defined as those members, along with their families, who leave the squadron; on to the next adventure the USAF plans for them, or maybe to retire to a place of their own design.

But not this time.

This time the loss seemed unnecessary and especially painful, because she didn’t show any signs of suffering. And we were supposed to be looking out for each other; the spouses.

We did not know we might lose someone.

This loss left someone behind. A girl who lost her mommy; her husband; her friends who didn’t know.

Somehow this is almost more difficult (I say almost) than bearing the loss of our military members. We’ve suffered this kind of loss, too, here. Overseas, when we, the squadron, collectively were the only family here to support those left behind in the early morning hours. This is part of who I am now. 

So we gain new resolve, and vigilance. Today I received an e-mail from the squadron, updating me on our gains and losses this month.

I stare and wonder how I can outweigh the losses with the gains.

RODE HARD AND PUT AWAY WET

There’s a horse in our back garden. We call him Charlie. Or Chuck. And sometimes the kids call him Caspar. It really just depends on who is addressing him at the time. The neighbors call him something else. He answers to any and all, as long as you follow the delivery address up with an apple, or two.

I tell him he is a rock star when I visit. He has ice blue eyes, which hide behind a wild mane of white rasta hair. He has a cool demeanor, and you wonder what he’s thinking as he stands there tall and aloof. He likes to nuzzle his nose into my pockets. He's learned they often contain treats. 

I love this moment. It reminds me of when I was a girl; letting my pony rub his nose up and down my body. I used to think it was his way of showing his affection. But he really just had an itch. I was his scratching post.

Charlie is a stud. Literally. He is left staked to the ground away from the other herd, only to be brought in to the mix on the occasion that one of them is ready to be ridden. I see the other horses look on to Charlie — seemingly star struck, as I am.

Chuck seems content enough to stand there. Every few days his owner mysteriously moves him (I never see this happen), and I wake to find him staked a little further out or closer in; depending.

Horace (my coonhound) and I go for walks and stop to see Charlie just about daily. I like to brush his hair out of his face and look into those amazing eyes, breathing in his horsey scent. He lets me. But as soon as I walk away, I notice he flicks his head until his hair falls back into place; hanging long down his nose.

(This reminds me of my daughter Gabby, as she doesn’t allow me to do anything to her hair either. I pull it back out of her face, and when I’m not looking she lets it down, falling over her beautiful cheekbones. But that’s another story.)

I am a girl, at heart, still fascinated and romanced by all things Charlie. I once gave my mom what appeared to be a random photo of an unknown horse. I bought it at a tradeshow where I worked in Cleveland. I stood for days across the aisle staring at this horse.

Taken from a distance, the Chestnut mare stands in the mouth of an old barn — alone, with a broken down tractor in the background. It is a very lonely picture. I told my mother I feel like that horse, often. She keeps it in her kitchen, closeby.

The other night it snowed. Hard. And the temperature in England fell well below zero degrees Celcius.

But there Chuck stood, alone in the darkness. I wanted to cover him with a blanket. That innate sense of caring for another left out in the cold was overwhelming. I shuddered at the thought of him standing there in the night; out in the snow and stormy weather. The winds whipped the snow across the heath. It was dismal.

I kept thinking of my Dad.

He always used the expression “rode hard and put away wet.”

It wasn’t a reference to horses, though.

You might imagine. He was referring to other lonely creatures; usually standing alone at the bar; waiting.

My Dad lived his life outside the sphere of anything close to political correctness. But he had a big heart. And he cared in his way very much. I know that now. Though, as a girl, I felt much like what I imagine Charlie feels, and maybe the horse in the photo I couldn't leave behind in Cleveland — adored maybe, but from a distance without too much connection.

(I woke the next day to find Charlie. He was standing right where I last saw him. He made it through the storm. I gave him extra apples.)

SPOT ON

Gabby has a zit.

It’s not just any, run of the mill blemish. It’s the elephant in the room. It gets there before her. Her sweet face has been swallowed by this red, pulsating BLOB. My youngest daughter has this beautiful alabaster, sensitive skin, and she’s only NINE. It’s too early for such things. I’m not ready.

So being her mother, I tried to make her feel better. We washed it; steamed it; soaked it. We tried not to poke it. We talked about the redeeming qualities of selecting just the right shade of cover-up. And then we honed our skills at the proper application of it.

We were dealing with life's unfair blow to Gabbo's nose in stride.

Then her sister brought the subject up on the bus the other day in front of  her friends and made her feel badly.  We’ve all been there —that point of unwanted attention leading to public humiliation. It’s horrifying. I was horrified for her.

She was coping fairly well with the whole situation until that point, and so was I. I hadn’t even tried to POP it.

Gabby came home with tears. This is a rarity. My kids are made of some tough stuff. 

Gabbo: “Mom she made EVERYBODY laugh about my nose on the bus; even the HIGHSCHOOLERS.”

(Yes, my 4^th and 5^th graders ride the bus with the high schoolers. It’s not a perfect world. The only thing I can do is try and get them to sit as far away as possible and out of ear-shot . Apparently not this time, though.)

Me: “Oh Gabbo, I’m sorry. But you know EVERYBODY gets zits. Zoe will get one sooner or later and maybe then she’ll be more understanding.”

Gabby: “I know but …”

Me: “Gabbo …. And yours is not just any zit. It’s a special zit. It’s …. Well it’s more like a TOO-MAH!”

I said this last part in what I imagined to be my best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.

Then I started laughing. And I couldn’t stop. It was Friday night. It had been a long week battling this zit and everything else life cannoned our way. My defenses were down.

And, of course, the Schwarzenegger reference didn’t resonate with Gabby, so she asked me what I said. So I got myself together and…..said it AGAIN!  

“ITZ AH TOO-MAH!” 

Then I collapsed into even a bigger, shameful ball of giggles.

It was just Gabby and me in the room. No one else was around to witness this horrifying scene of Mom-gone-wrong. She sort of looked on with a combination of confusion and wonderment and a little crying laughter.

Eventually I collected myself and tried to hug away any lasting ill-effects of my blemish — I mean my blunder.

It dawned on me then why, maybe, our three children are pretty capable of coping with life's knocks. 

Sometimes I think that if our children survive the likes of us — their parents — the people who love them more then anything else in the world, then really nothing will keep them down.

NEAR, FAR IN OUR MOTOR CAR

Listening to BBC yesterday, I learned Chris Evans, a Radio2 DJ recently bought Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and is having it restored to its original splendor.

Original splendor.

I would like to be restored to my original splendor…

But that’s not what came to mind immediately —(only just now, really).

No — what came to mind and to heart were all the memories and emotions that program evoked when I was six or seven watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang on TV. Most likely I was laying on the floor, belly down with a bowl of buttery popcorn in front of me, just about a foot from the footed set.

The mere mention of the car yesterday brought about much the same emotion, only different. I love that movie and all the possibility of adventure it promises. 

More than anything, I lament the beautiful naivety of the age I was when I first saw that movie; an age I now watch my children surpass.

My youngest lost not one — but TWO teeth yesterday, and while she seemed excited by the not one — but TWO silver dollars under her pillow this morning, I noticed that telltale look of knowing shaded by her lashes in those big blue eyes.

Other things lately have me thinking about how easy (hard at the time) it was to be (feel like) a good mom if only I had them dressed properly, fed and happily playing on the floor — or stuffed into their carseats ready for an adventure of my own making.

I can’t seem to get them dressed properly any more. They choose, instead to go out into the cold without their nice coats. The coats are usually left dangling from their hooks, or from my outstretched arm. I want to yell and stamp my foot on the ground, and sometimes I do, but often to no effect. I know this. Every time.

I see my son channeling through his day more and more without seeking much input from me. I try to keep him stocked and sorted.  And I provide rides. He still needs rides.

In fact, last week we came to loggerheads over a respect issue, and the only thing I could really wield to any effect, I felt at the time, was to withdraw the ride. So I made him walk home. He was mad. I was worried. But he made it home and understood why I did it. We talked about it later.

I would like to restore the time when I could stuff my three beautiful people into the back seat of our very own Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and to offer them laughter and adventure; even with all the dangers out there; me at the wheel to protect them. We've had many of those.

But they are beginning to slide over and take the wheel for themselves; seeking their own sort of adventures. I know I need to let them. I'm not quite ready, though. I'm up for a few more of my own design, before I let them take the car on their own...

"Bang Bang, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang ... Our Fine Four Fendered Friend!"

HOLES IN MY HEAD

I’ve been having more than my share of “blond moments,” lately. In fact, I think I said the term more than once yesterday, "Sorry. I'm having a blond moment."

I’d like to blame my silliness on the color of my hair, I really would. Furthermore, I’d like to say my ever-increasing “ice blond” (read gray/white) hair actually qualifies to be assigned to this esteemed hair-color category.

I guess I’m not sure the term is relevant when it comes to me or my condition. I’m okay with that.

What I’m NOT okay with, is the ever-increasing frequency in which I find myself in the middle of making a point or reference in a conversation that I cannot complete. It’s that pinnacle moment when you’re about to bubble over with some awesome relevancy — and you can’t recall the particulars; instead only a random reference with an approximate summation and an estimated date come to mind.

It leaves one with the same sense of “near to nothing” feeling that having sex with no climax does. That’s okay once in a while, but if it happens with any frequency, it’s a bit of a letdown.

So, like many, I blame my problems on the military.

Here’s my theorem: the more often you move, the more you have to trash information about the place you’ve just left, in order to create enough RAM for the new information you’re about to download.

This repetitive process causes cracks in the short-term crevices of your brain.

All the details about daily living are effected — like knowing the names of: neighbors; doctors; realtors; lawyers; hair salons; teachers; restaurants; libraries; churches; books; the cat; the dog; and/or, ... your children. The list goes on. ALL those things become moot and must be replaced and re-recorded every two to three years (except, of course, your children).

This process can render a person pointless.

Therefore, my lack-of-clarity moments have nothing to do with getting older or with the color of my hair. It is the military that is to blame. The big, generic not-so-specific, overgeneralization many like to make when referring to any or all of the five branches as, "THE MILITARY." In this case it might apply. These short-term memory-loss symptoms resulting from frequent moves know no distinctions.

Have I already written about this? I honestly can't remember ...

STEADY SAILING

It’s Back to School, chapter 2 — THE NEW YEAR — today. I looked around after the morning rush, with a slow-motion, moving through mud-like quality. This is in sharp contrast to the get up and go feeling I was mentally striving for in my New Year resolve. I conjured a different energy for the past two days in my anticipation.

Actually the kids did really great today. Everyone got up; got ready; got their teeth brushed; all with minimal morning bickering. That, in itself, is a major thing; one to be noted and chalked up as an accomplishment.

I stood at the door and watched my children hold themselves down against the blustering winds that presently whip through East Anglia, England. They are feet-liftingly fierce. (I use plural here, because there has to be more than one wind whirling out there.) They fly about as if there’s a real in-my-face challenge to how serious I was when I penned my page-long goals. which is really the first time I've laid pen to paper in a serious way in quite some time.

I had a difficult time making just one or two good resolutions this year. I have an entire list. I think this must be a direct by-product of “the year after the big move.” Our entire 2011 was dominated by change, both physical location and mental outlook. That’s over now, so time to get busy on some constructive life issues that were shelved or have resulted because of our move.

We all, I argue, are products of our environment, at least in some part. Constant change is the bridge to everything a military family is about. So at least, for us, our surroundings, play a large part in our lives. We live our life sandwiched in between moves. Our achievements are linked together by places and, our military member’s deployment schedule.

It’s easy to lose sight of self in all of this. Self-image, self-actualization, selfishness — you attach the clause, any which one is relevant to the issue.

Some people are in professional fields that bridge nicely, like teaching or nursing. Those fields seem to be largely transportable. Some spouses work in the technology field out of their homes, which is nice, too.

Others — and I seem to fit into this category — have largely left their fields, which leaves them feeling divided. On one hand, you get to reinvent yourself every few years and offer yourself up to whatever your new situation may hold, or focus on family first, which is such a gift. On the other side of the coin, you wonder where you’d be professionally, if only you had the opportunity to, a) live in one place long enough to build your career (again); and b)live in a place which offers you opportunity in your field.

My avocation has become a thread, stitching some fabric of consistency between moves. I began coaching swimming three locations and/or six years ago. Sometimes I get paid; sometimes I don’t. But it keeps me focused on something outside the immediate military sphere. I like that for me and for the kids, although coaching lanes which contain your children poses its own set of issues to overcome.

In addition, military spouse service duties can be smaller or larger, depending on place and time. These range from social to the real work of caring for others. This aspect of our life can be overwhelming at times, when you stop and think that it all exists by virtue of relation, not necessarily a self-driven choice. Some people embrace the opportunity to jump in and roll up their sleeves; others don’t. It’s a personal choice, and one must respect both points of view. The expectations of yourself outside and in, and the tasks involved are, at times, daunting.

Military obligations are a large slice of life, presently. So I resolve to practice balance, and to write more than I have since the move, no matter what the winds of 2012 have in store. It was a relief to see my pre-move blog page still exists and that I can still fill it with words situated in a new place and time. That's a nice bridge.

As with everything on that New Year's list, it's one step at a time; one day at a time. Maybe focus and forward motion don't come with great exuberance and exclamation punctuated by firewords booming at midnight, but instead with steady, studied sailing, sighting the distant light on these windy, ever-changing seas.

FOR YOU, BRETT

All dressed up and nowhere to go — that old expression came to life for me, just now. And I stand here wondering, “Is that really so bad?”

Really, I am.

I’m not certain if I’ve just reached an all-time low, or whether — just maybe — I’ve finally passed over into that phase of my life where I give a shit, or not. Could this be transcendence, of sorts?

We’ve only just settled into our new abode — to the north and east of London. We’re in the country, really.

I look around the house and feel settled. The kids are at school. I do not work, at present. And I am lucky to say I have at least one friend who is near and dear.

But today I am alone.

And I took more care than usual just now, getting dressed.

I showered and shaved; painted my toes; did my hair and makeup. I even put on heels. Any one of these could be considered a grand gesture for those who know me. (Surely I’ve gone days without a shower, let alone painting my toes…heels barely know me.)

I came downstairs, hungry for lunch and realized I have nowhere to go.

I had a lunch date with my husband, who just returned (again), but he was caught at work; not his fault. And I knew this before I went to all the trouble, but I did it anyway.

And it’s a gorgeous day, so I wouldn’t mind (theoretically) going off to lunch on my own.

But, instead, I’d much rather pour a glass a wine; make a salad and stay here.

What is that? I wonder … as I listen to nothing and stare … is that PEACE?

It feels strange even to think it, let alone to write it.