Dear Jon,
We've been married for over five years, so naturally we are totally over all that romantic crap like love letters. But what the heck. I figure we can bring it back, since you're deployed and all. And because you have nice legs. So here goes. A love letter. For you.
Nate has been throwing LOTS of tantrums lately. I've called my parents yelling and/or crying more times than I want to admit to someone whose job it is to fly a 45 million-dollar helicopter through the night. Yesterday, my mom assured me, "No, Bek, he's not a psychopath... he's TWO" for a good twenty minutes while Nathan sat pantless on the toilet, screaming his face off. I wish I could give you some background as to why that tantrum happened... and why it started on the TOILET of all places, but I'm as mystified as you are, Dear. He asked me to take him to the bathroom and for help with his pants and as soon as I put him on the toilet, he started wailing like a Chicken Fil-A cow at McDonalds. Sunday I stood, shaking and ready to sell my ovaries to the highest bidder, in the parking lot at church while your son arched his back and screamed like a ... psychopath... trying to ignore the appalled glances and sympathetic smiles from passers by. It took me 15 minutes and more patience than I have to even get him buckled into his car seat. Not to mention the hauling through the parking lot to the car with him under one arm and Evelyn sleeping happily in a sling while Nate bansheed it up. Or the drive home. Or the continuance of the tantrum once we got there. Or the daily mini tantrums we have. Every night I put him to bed and pray with him for obedience and self-control.
I also pray for him sometimes.
I keep having moments in training our strong-willed son that make me want to call all of my friends who haven't had kids yet and congratulate them on their excellent life decisions.
The truth is, though, I like our kids enough to put up with wolverine tantrums. And that's a lot of love. When there's no screaming, I'm downright in love with the little sinners. So when you get home and your family is alive and healthy, no members of which having been sold into slavery, I do believe you will understand. Not because a more patient, loving person couldn't have done this job of mine better and with grace (and without complaint on a public forum), but because it's me. You already know my crazy. And I'm showing deployment whose BOSS with the help of family and friends and Stella Artois. So this is my love letter to you. I love you so much that I love your kids. Enough to not ship them to you with my letter of resignation. Enough to consider a homecoming gift for you that doesn't start with hyster- and end in -echtomy. Enough to give you a love letter that takes the time of two back-to-back deployments to write and looks like two tiny, smiling faces when your plane lands and you see us waiting for you.
Just know that a lesser man would have gotten a screaming box (with holes punched for air and cracker crumbs falling out) in the mail months ago. But because you are kind and strong and so good to us and you love us with every single part of your being, we love you, too. And because I love you, I'm writing this letter. It's a long one, but you're worth it.
Love, your wife.
PS... I really did take a shower while they cried, but Nate was being banished to his room for a rebellious revolution of the French degree and Evelyn was soon soothed to sleep by his wails, so I felt it justified the neglect. So... you're welcome...?
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Friday, November 30, 2012
And Then There Were Four
I am wearing just my wedding band as I type this. I had to take off my engagement ring before I went to the hospital for the C-Section and I left on my wedding band in hopes that they would let me wear it into surgery, so that Jon would be there with me in some small way. It's been two and a half weeks, but I keep forgetting to put my diamond back on. I've been up a lot at night.
They even didn't let me wear the ring. I make jokes when I'm nervous and having a baby cut out of me without Jon makes me nervous, so I was cracking up the whole operating room. I'm a hilarious terrified person. Truth is, C-Sections scare the crap out of me. I become convinced that something will go wrong and my precious baby won't be alright. That the room will go silent and no one will tell me why. It's not really rational, but that's what comes of the unhealthy habit of putting off fears instead of facing them when they occur. They all smother you when you can't put them off anymore and your arms are strapped to a table and your baby's life is in the hands of someone else who raises goats in his spare time. No joke. My doctor is awesome. He raises goats. I even joked about it during the surgery. (I was nervous.)
While I was trying to figure out how the smell of the alcohol swab the anesthesiologist put in my oxygen mask took my nausea away, the doctor said, "Oh! She's breech! When did that happen?" Then, over the sheet he asked me, "She wasn't breech, was she?" and I tried to figure out if that's bad in a C-Section, but it was followed by, "It's okay, Just grab her behind the knees like this..." and a few moments later, the most beautiful sound in the world - a healthy (angry) baby wail - filled the operating room. Everything - the stress of finishing my stupid degree before this moment, the pain of not having my husband to hold my hand, the fear that something would go wrong - it all dissipated, showing its weight by its absence and tears of relief and joy rolled down my face, because she was okay. I could have bled out on the table right then for all I cared, but she was okay and the tech said she's so long and look at those feet and I couldn't see her, but it didn't matter, because she was okay. They brought her over and I managed to turn my head enough to kiss the face I could only really half see but already loved more than I could ever speak. She's okay. She's perfect.
Evelyn Kate Butterfield. 8 pounds, 5 ounces. 21 1/2 inches long. Born at 9:10 am on Tuesday, November 13th. And perfect.
Jon called his mom from the ship. She was waiting in recovery with Evelyn while I was still in the operating room, and he got to hear his little girl cry. The same cry that told me everything was okay reassured her daddy as well.
Phone calls can be disappointing during a deployment. What I want is to snuggle into Jon's voice and stay there in its comfort the way I would put on a cozy sweater and curl up on the couch. In reality, phone calls are like trying a sweater on in the store. You can feel how comfortable it is, but you can't receive the full measure of comfort from it, because it's borrowed. It isn't yours yet. It just fuels the longing to really, truly own it.
But this phone call with the newborn, healthy cry was different. It relieved all the pent up worry that something would go wrong and he wouldn't be there to hold my hand. It answered the countless prayers he'd sent up throughout his days flying and studying and eating crappy ship food that God would watch out for his family when he couldn't be there to see how tiny she was. And it reassured him that we were okay. It didn't matter that he'd been up late night after night and it wasn't so bad that he couldn't be there in this moment, because we were okay. I got to talk to him half an hour later, ring back on my finger, and we shared relief and thanks to a good God. It's hard doing things like that over the phone, but in that moment, there was mostly joy.
Evelyn Kate, you are so deeply loved. And we are so intensely grateful for you. "Evelyn" means "life" and Kate means, "pure". You are pure life, sweet girl, from your healthy cries to your wide, observant eyes, you represent the joy of life to us. Welcome.
They even didn't let me wear the ring. I make jokes when I'm nervous and having a baby cut out of me without Jon makes me nervous, so I was cracking up the whole operating room. I'm a hilarious terrified person. Truth is, C-Sections scare the crap out of me. I become convinced that something will go wrong and my precious baby won't be alright. That the room will go silent and no one will tell me why. It's not really rational, but that's what comes of the unhealthy habit of putting off fears instead of facing them when they occur. They all smother you when you can't put them off anymore and your arms are strapped to a table and your baby's life is in the hands of someone else who raises goats in his spare time. No joke. My doctor is awesome. He raises goats. I even joked about it during the surgery. (I was nervous.)
While I was trying to figure out how the smell of the alcohol swab the anesthesiologist put in my oxygen mask took my nausea away, the doctor said, "Oh! She's breech! When did that happen?" Then, over the sheet he asked me, "She wasn't breech, was she?" and I tried to figure out if that's bad in a C-Section, but it was followed by, "It's okay, Just grab her behind the knees like this..." and a few moments later, the most beautiful sound in the world - a healthy (angry) baby wail - filled the operating room. Everything - the stress of finishing my stupid degree before this moment, the pain of not having my husband to hold my hand, the fear that something would go wrong - it all dissipated, showing its weight by its absence and tears of relief and joy rolled down my face, because she was okay. I could have bled out on the table right then for all I cared, but she was okay and the tech said she's so long and look at those feet and I couldn't see her, but it didn't matter, because she was okay. They brought her over and I managed to turn my head enough to kiss the face I could only really half see but already loved more than I could ever speak. She's okay. She's perfect.
Evelyn Kate Butterfield. 8 pounds, 5 ounces. 21 1/2 inches long. Born at 9:10 am on Tuesday, November 13th. And perfect.
Jon called his mom from the ship. She was waiting in recovery with Evelyn while I was still in the operating room, and he got to hear his little girl cry. The same cry that told me everything was okay reassured her daddy as well.
Phone calls can be disappointing during a deployment. What I want is to snuggle into Jon's voice and stay there in its comfort the way I would put on a cozy sweater and curl up on the couch. In reality, phone calls are like trying a sweater on in the store. You can feel how comfortable it is, but you can't receive the full measure of comfort from it, because it's borrowed. It isn't yours yet. It just fuels the longing to really, truly own it.
But this phone call with the newborn, healthy cry was different. It relieved all the pent up worry that something would go wrong and he wouldn't be there to hold my hand. It answered the countless prayers he'd sent up throughout his days flying and studying and eating crappy ship food that God would watch out for his family when he couldn't be there to see how tiny she was. And it reassured him that we were okay. It didn't matter that he'd been up late night after night and it wasn't so bad that he couldn't be there in this moment, because we were okay. I got to talk to him half an hour later, ring back on my finger, and we shared relief and thanks to a good God. It's hard doing things like that over the phone, but in that moment, there was mostly joy.
Evelyn Kate, you are so deeply loved. And we are so intensely grateful for you. "Evelyn" means "life" and Kate means, "pure". You are pure life, sweet girl, from your healthy cries to your wide, observant eyes, you represent the joy of life to us. Welcome.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Sasquatch Wears Makeup
Obviously when Jon is gone there are beauty routines that just don't get much attention. Saturdays are the only days I don't have to wear makeup, so unless we have somewhere to go, I usually slub around, barefaced, in work-out clothes that never get to participate in actual exercise.
Poor things. They probably had high hopes of being owned by my sister, who is totally in shape and adorable whenever she works out. But instead, they got me. Fatty McPreggers with not an ounce of energy to even inspire a visit to the gym.
Anyway, I don't shave my legs as often as I do when the husband is home and with cooler weather coming (I'm keeping my fingers crossed), and with my belly obscuring my view of my legs more and more each day, pretty soon I won't have to shave much at all. When you think about it, I'm growing rounder and larger everyday and with my legs becoming less and less ... groomed... there may be reports of Sasquatch sightings in San Diego in the upcoming months.
But today I had church and a baby shower, so I was in the process of applying my war paint when Nate walked in to the bathroom. He steals deodorant, make-up, hair brushes, etc., so when I am getting ready, I have to keep all the supplies pushed as far back on the counter as possible and run interference with my hips. He had grabbed something - deodorant I think - which has not turned out well in the past. (Our only poison-control call concerned a small child consuming a stick of deodorant). So I traded him for a tiny tube of clear mascara, assuming that he wouldn't be able to open it. In addition to larger and hairier, I appear to be getting stupider. Yet another Sasquatch qualification.
He left the bathroom, talking to himself, pleased with his contraband and I continued to put on my face, listening to his happy jabbering, "Henry!"... "Henry... Eyes!" As I was musing on how nice it is to listen to contented toddler talk, it occurred to me that 'Henry' and 'Eyes' in the same sentence might necessitate a quick check. I peeked my head out to see Nathan with mascara in one hand and the applicator in the other, poking at Henry's reluctant eyelashes. "What a smart and observant child to know precisely what to do with a mascara wand," I mused as I lunged at him, hollering, "NO!" He squealed with delight at the commencement of a chase and ran, wand and tube held high over his head, into the living room, chortling. I prayed, as I often do during a "give-that-back-to-me--no-I-will-not" race, that he wouldn't fall and get a wand-full of mascara/fork/stiletto to the eye. He did not, thank God.
As a side note, when I get to heaven and God pulls out the list of my most frequent prayers, my number one will not, as you might suspect, be, "Please, oh please, let there be chocolate cake at this function," but, instead, "Please make that child go to sleep" and "Don't let him get hurt doing that!" in no particular order. But the latter will mostly be in all caps.
I caught him and took the mascara back. To his credit, there was little to no fussing. But episodes like this make me wonder. If he's SO observant and brilliant at noticing the precise way I do certain things - like apply makeup - why does he never take notice and emulate the things I WANT him to do? Like *not* hitting the coffee table repeatedly with a spoon and *not* jumping off the coffee table onto my pregnant, couch-ridden belly and *not* applying yogurt to Henry's ears, to name a few examples.
I'm going to start pulling out my makeup and, when he's present, saying to myself, "No, I will not touch this, I'm going to put it back in the drawer and then go and thank Mommy for being such a terrific parent."
I don't have very high hopes for the results, but it's worth a try.
Poor things. They probably had high hopes of being owned by my sister, who is totally in shape and adorable whenever she works out. But instead, they got me. Fatty McPreggers with not an ounce of energy to even inspire a visit to the gym.
Anyway, I don't shave my legs as often as I do when the husband is home and with cooler weather coming (I'm keeping my fingers crossed), and with my belly obscuring my view of my legs more and more each day, pretty soon I won't have to shave much at all. When you think about it, I'm growing rounder and larger everyday and with my legs becoming less and less ... groomed... there may be reports of Sasquatch sightings in San Diego in the upcoming months.
But today I had church and a baby shower, so I was in the process of applying my war paint when Nate walked in to the bathroom. He steals deodorant, make-up, hair brushes, etc., so when I am getting ready, I have to keep all the supplies pushed as far back on the counter as possible and run interference with my hips. He had grabbed something - deodorant I think - which has not turned out well in the past. (Our only poison-control call concerned a small child consuming a stick of deodorant). So I traded him for a tiny tube of clear mascara, assuming that he wouldn't be able to open it. In addition to larger and hairier, I appear to be getting stupider. Yet another Sasquatch qualification.
He left the bathroom, talking to himself, pleased with his contraband and I continued to put on my face, listening to his happy jabbering, "Henry!"... "Henry... Eyes!" As I was musing on how nice it is to listen to contented toddler talk, it occurred to me that 'Henry' and 'Eyes' in the same sentence might necessitate a quick check. I peeked my head out to see Nathan with mascara in one hand and the applicator in the other, poking at Henry's reluctant eyelashes. "What a smart and observant child to know precisely what to do with a mascara wand," I mused as I lunged at him, hollering, "NO!" He squealed with delight at the commencement of a chase and ran, wand and tube held high over his head, into the living room, chortling. I prayed, as I often do during a "give-that-back-to-me--no-I-will-not" race, that he wouldn't fall and get a wand-full of mascara/fork/stiletto to the eye. He did not, thank God.
As a side note, when I get to heaven and God pulls out the list of my most frequent prayers, my number one will not, as you might suspect, be, "Please, oh please, let there be chocolate cake at this function," but, instead, "Please make that child go to sleep" and "Don't let him get hurt doing that!" in no particular order. But the latter will mostly be in all caps.
I caught him and took the mascara back. To his credit, there was little to no fussing. But episodes like this make me wonder. If he's SO observant and brilliant at noticing the precise way I do certain things - like apply makeup - why does he never take notice and emulate the things I WANT him to do? Like *not* hitting the coffee table repeatedly with a spoon and *not* jumping off the coffee table onto my pregnant, couch-ridden belly and *not* applying yogurt to Henry's ears, to name a few examples.
I'm going to start pulling out my makeup and, when he's present, saying to myself, "No, I will not touch this, I'm going to put it back in the drawer and then go and thank Mommy for being such a terrific parent."
I don't have very high hopes for the results, but it's worth a try.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Snippets
Every night before I go to bed, Henry and I have the exact same routine. I don't want him to wake me up at 3am to let him out, but he's not super willing to leave Jon's pillow, where he is inevitably sleeping peacefully, and walk all the way outside, so I say, "Henry! What is it? Who is it? Go see!" and because he thinks someone is attacking the house, he jumps up with a rumbling growl and races out the open back door to bark like the world is ending. When he's done, he uses the facilities. This happens every single night and Henry has not once caught on that there is never actually a cause for alarm. He must think that burglars are particularly OCD about timing, but by barking his furry face off, he keeps them away.
Good boy, Henry. I support you.
~
Nathan is obviously the funniest kid yet born. He is, perhaps, one of the most hyperactive and rotten kids, yes, but also the funniest. Lately, when I ask him what he wants to do or where he wants to go, he gets super serious, crosses his arms over his chest like a disappointed boss and says, "Umm.... Elmo." Every time. Even when he's half asleep. It cracks me up. Sometimes he says, "Ummm.... eat" when I ask him what he wants to do, but "Elmo" is always where he wants to go. Life is so much simpler as a toddler. You don't have to make sense and people love it.
~
I have a friend with whom I haven't spoken in a good number of years who is getting married. I was not invited (I mean, we haven't spoken in years, so I'm not upset or anything. Now I don't have to buy a gift.) She keeps posting on facebook for people to send in their RSVPs and I have a nearly insatiable desire to comment, "Yes! I'll be there! And I'm bringing my toddler and my mom. We'd all like the filet mignon. Thanks! Can't wait! It's going to be so much fun!" I have up to this point resisted, but only because I can talk about it here. As awkward and hilarious (to me) as that comment would be, how much more awkward (if not slightly less hilarious) would it be if she reads my blog?
~
It is impossible to look professional while pregnant. Lord knows, I have tried. But the put-together bookends of styled hair and high heels are totally undone by an I-just-swallowed-a-watermelon-seed-and-what-they-say-is-true shaped belly. Plus it's so personal. It's advertising to the world that A) you and your husband are making a family, which is not exactly career-building stuff or B) you guys are kind of irresponsible about protection. Irresponsibility also reflects poorly on an employee. Either way, it's like carrying around your personal information on display with a belly-button on top. And if you're lucky enough to appear tailored and professional, it will be at that moment that the tiny person living inside your uterus decides to perform water aerobics and your belly will start jolting around like there's a platypus trying to escape in the middle of a conversation with your bosses' boss. Which, you know, isn't very put-together of you. Don't bother to apply for the position. We're giving it to someone with control over their abdomen.
Good boy, Henry. I support you.
~
Nathan is obviously the funniest kid yet born. He is, perhaps, one of the most hyperactive and rotten kids, yes, but also the funniest. Lately, when I ask him what he wants to do or where he wants to go, he gets super serious, crosses his arms over his chest like a disappointed boss and says, "Umm.... Elmo." Every time. Even when he's half asleep. It cracks me up. Sometimes he says, "Ummm.... eat" when I ask him what he wants to do, but "Elmo" is always where he wants to go. Life is so much simpler as a toddler. You don't have to make sense and people love it.
~
I have a friend with whom I haven't spoken in a good number of years who is getting married. I was not invited (I mean, we haven't spoken in years, so I'm not upset or anything. Now I don't have to buy a gift.) She keeps posting on facebook for people to send in their RSVPs and I have a nearly insatiable desire to comment, "Yes! I'll be there! And I'm bringing my toddler and my mom. We'd all like the filet mignon. Thanks! Can't wait! It's going to be so much fun!" I have up to this point resisted, but only because I can talk about it here. As awkward and hilarious (to me) as that comment would be, how much more awkward (if not slightly less hilarious) would it be if she reads my blog?
~
It is impossible to look professional while pregnant. Lord knows, I have tried. But the put-together bookends of styled hair and high heels are totally undone by an I-just-swallowed-a-watermelon-seed-and-what-they-say-is-true shaped belly. Plus it's so personal. It's advertising to the world that A) you and your husband are making a family, which is not exactly career-building stuff or B) you guys are kind of irresponsible about protection. Irresponsibility also reflects poorly on an employee. Either way, it's like carrying around your personal information on display with a belly-button on top. And if you're lucky enough to appear tailored and professional, it will be at that moment that the tiny person living inside your uterus decides to perform water aerobics and your belly will start jolting around like there's a platypus trying to escape in the middle of a conversation with your bosses' boss. Which, you know, isn't very put-together of you. Don't bother to apply for the position. We're giving it to someone with control over their abdomen.
Monday, September 10, 2012
The One Where the Navy Writes Me a Letter
When deployment begins, so does chaos. It always seems that nothing goes wrong until after the ship pulls out and the big strong man is gone. Monday my computer broke. Tuesday the tire that needed a patch turned into four tires and a pressure monitor that needed all-out replacing. Wednesday my adviser had an issue with my internship (two weeks after he'd approved it) that, if left unresolved, would mean my internship didn't count and well over $2000 for this semester alone would be down the drain. He ended the conversation with, "Work harder". I hung up and ended the conversation with some choice words of my own, thankyouverrymuch. It got fixed on Friday, though. Saturday Nate and I spent a wonderful time with my cousin and her family that ended with Nathan pooping on their carpet. Which he hasn't done in a really really long time. And somehow it managed to escape his underpants AND his shorts. I suspect it had something to do with the funny, leg-shake, wiggle dance he did right before it popped out and rolled onto the carpet. I was good and embarrassed, especially because I'd just finished telling my cousin's husband, "Yeah, well we're still having issues with pooping. I mean. He doesn't poop on the FLOOR or anything, he just always asks for a diaper."
Yeah. Nathan totally heard that. "You think you have me trained?"
Oooh... Braxton Hicks. Hello, 30 weeks of pregnancy!
So last night Nate wouldn't sleep. He's been having issues with being willing to go down since he started part-time daycare a couple weeks ago, but since Jon's left, it's gotten a lot worse and he sobs when I leave the room. Last night was BAD. He was basically up most of the night. I gave up at 3 am and just laid in there with him. I also noticed that he seemed a little congested. Which turned into full-fledged coughing, sneezing and nose-running with a fever today. So that makes, what? Thing number five that's gone awry since the Man left a week ago... if you count a stray turd on my cousin's carpet as an awry thing. If not, then only four things have gone wrong.
Either way, today I got a piece of mail from the Navy. Up until now, I'd been answering incredulous comments of, "Surely the Navy will send your husband home for the baby's delivery!" with "The Navy don't care." But I was wrong. All this time I thought The Navy hadn't considered me at all and now here they are sending me a letter. It said something to the effect of, "We are willing to provide you with services pertaining to in-home consultations about the care of your new child." Which means, "We're concerned that you're going to start shaking your baby because your husband is deployed. This doesn't reflect well on us, so we're going to send people to teach you not to take out your angst on your child. Sincerely, The Navy, bringing PTSD to the home-front since 2010 "
Aww, gee, The Navy, thanks! You thought about me! But really, instead of that back-handed insult, I'd like to suggest something else. I don't need you to teach me not to beat my kids. If I was going to shake my children out of deployment-induced angst, I would have done so during this last deployment. The one that ended this past spring. Which is one summer ago. Have you forgotten so quickly? My request is this: I would greatly appreciate it if the admiral in charge of sending my husband away again could merely be present at the birth of my baby. In place of my husband, you know? It's not much to ask. Just a morale call, if you will. By the time Jon gets home from this deployment, he will have been gone 16 out of the preceding 20 months. It's a darn good thing he's worth waiting for. Since YOU, The Navy, don't really care about him being gone, at least show your support by letting an admiral catch the placenta. It really would mean a lot to me. In a cathartic kind of way.
Navy wives, bringing PTSD to Admirals since... well a girl can dream, can't she?
Yeah. Nathan totally heard that. "You think you have me trained?"
Oooh... Braxton Hicks. Hello, 30 weeks of pregnancy!
So last night Nate wouldn't sleep. He's been having issues with being willing to go down since he started part-time daycare a couple weeks ago, but since Jon's left, it's gotten a lot worse and he sobs when I leave the room. Last night was BAD. He was basically up most of the night. I gave up at 3 am and just laid in there with him. I also noticed that he seemed a little congested. Which turned into full-fledged coughing, sneezing and nose-running with a fever today. So that makes, what? Thing number five that's gone awry since the Man left a week ago... if you count a stray turd on my cousin's carpet as an awry thing. If not, then only four things have gone wrong.
Either way, today I got a piece of mail from the Navy. Up until now, I'd been answering incredulous comments of, "Surely the Navy will send your husband home for the baby's delivery!" with "The Navy don't care." But I was wrong. All this time I thought The Navy hadn't considered me at all and now here they are sending me a letter. It said something to the effect of, "We are willing to provide you with services pertaining to in-home consultations about the care of your new child." Which means, "We're concerned that you're going to start shaking your baby because your husband is deployed. This doesn't reflect well on us, so we're going to send people to teach you not to take out your angst on your child. Sincerely, The Navy, bringing PTSD to the home-front since 2010 "
Aww, gee, The Navy, thanks! You thought about me! But really, instead of that back-handed insult, I'd like to suggest something else. I don't need you to teach me not to beat my kids. If I was going to shake my children out of deployment-induced angst, I would have done so during this last deployment. The one that ended this past spring. Which is one summer ago. Have you forgotten so quickly? My request is this: I would greatly appreciate it if the admiral in charge of sending my husband away again could merely be present at the birth of my baby. In place of my husband, you know? It's not much to ask. Just a morale call, if you will. By the time Jon gets home from this deployment, he will have been gone 16 out of the preceding 20 months. It's a darn good thing he's worth waiting for. Since YOU, The Navy, don't really care about him being gone, at least show your support by letting an admiral catch the placenta. It really would mean a lot to me. In a cathartic kind of way.
Navy wives, bringing PTSD to Admirals since... well a girl can dream, can't she?
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Once More Unto the Breach
This is how I feel about this deployment. Naturally, Shakespeare writes it better than I can and he totally doesn't feel sorry for himself like I do, so I'll let him do the talking. When depression gets you nowhere, "stiffen up the sinews" and take yet-another deployment like Henry V would (slightly *improved* by yours truly.) Also, say this aloud, vehemently and with a Scottish accent. Henry V may have said it with a proper English accent, but we're Americans. We improve on Shakespeare if we darn well please. Plus anything is convincing if said with vehemence and a Scottish accent.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a [woman]
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spiritTo his full height. On, on, you noblest [Navy Wives].
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in [America], show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swearThat you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for [all the women left behind]!'
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a [woman]
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spiritTo his full height. On, on, you noblest [Navy Wives].
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in [America], show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swearThat you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for [all the women left behind]!'
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
To My Son, Whom I Love
Dear Nathan,
Today you threw a tantrum. This happens about 3 times a week, with some half-tantrums thrown in here and there. I don't know if it's is true, but I'm telling myself that this is normal for toddlers. It helps me cope.
Grammy made you some Thomas the Train pajamas and you love them. This is why you threw a tantrum: I dared to take them off and attempt to put you in clothes and you went all Mr. Hyde on me. But I want to explain something. It's not as though I was trying to put clothes on you so that I could take you to a Communist Torture Daycare and go get myself a luxurious pani/pedi. We need to go to the store, so that I can feed you and Daddy and your Poppa dinner. You turned into an evil alter ego of yourself because I want to make you a healthy, delicious dinner.
The French took theirs too far, but I wouldn't complain if you wanted to throw yourself a revolution for the glory of Reason every once in a while.
Except the Russian spy network.
Good thing they don't read my blog.
The entire purpose of this post isn't actually for you, though. I intend on reviewing it when you're heading off to Kindergarten and I'm crying at home, missing you. You're wonderful 70% of the time, but there will be times where I need to be reminded, my son, of the toddler years.
You are still the sweetest boy in the world,
Love, Мать (that's "mother" in Russian)
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