Before I had my first child, I would try to envision what it would be like to be a mother. I would ask my friends with kids what it was like… and study how they interacted with their own children. Most often, because I didn’t know any better, I’d judge them. I would think, I’ll never do what they do. I’ll do things right… by the book. And every once in a while, one of those friends would notice the capricious look upon my face and say, “You just wait. You have NO idea what it’s going to be like.” I’d reluctantly take their advice as well as their books on childbirth, nursing and parenting and then lay on my bed in the fetal position, crying into the mattress. What the hell did I know about being a mother? Like most of you, I didn’t know much.

Now I have friends having babies, and I revel in their newfound sense of wonderment––the change of their bodies as they create this life inside of them. They want to know if I remember my cravings or how I felt during this/that trimester, and like the mothers who came before me, I regale them my own stories of chugging Tropicana straight from the carton, and some of the lesser maladies related to the “blessing” that is pregnancy. I can however tell them what I’ve done to this point, with my five and nearly-three year old. But there’s always another mother, one with far more experience than me who says, “You just wait until they start doing homework.” Or, “You just wait until they’re teenagers.” The list goes on and on––ever evolving.

For me, motherhood is a double sided mirror. One side is magnified, which illuminates all of my faults, and is a constant work in progress. The other side is normal, the lighting is soft, and I see a beauty that wasn’t there before. The two sides never meet. Hence, no perfection is ever reached. I certainly don’t feel any pressure to be perfect. Hell, I don’t even know what that means. But I do hope that I represent the “normal” side of that mirror to my children more often than the flawed one. To all of the new mothers out there with little babies, and to those who are expecting… you’re one of “us” now. You’ll soon be telling your own warrior stories of how you made it through your experiences and how you coped… and they will be unique to you. They will be terrifying, beautiful, hilarious, and joyous. You just wait… motherhood is amazing.

I haven’t written in what seems to be an eternity.  And I don’t have a clear reason as to why this is.  I assume it’s because I’ve been doing some serious soul searching lately… trying to get to the bottom of who I am––and to what this “life thing” is all about.  I started doing CrossFit in January, which has been a fun, exhausting and difficult journey, but ultimately it has taught me how to be stronger, inside and out.  And boy do I need that lately?

Early this morning, while street lights were still aglow, my son awoke from his sleep.  He walked to the top of the stairs where he called out, “Mommy, mommy, mommy.”  I drew him into my arms and we sat silently in his room, rocking our way back to Nod.  I couldn’t help but think how that scenario will be stuck, as if on repeat, for the next year.  As Craig prepares to leave for another deployment, I do as well.  And the thought of it is beginning to hurt.  Really hurt.  I looked down at my boy who will be turning two in a few days, and know he will not remember the distance that we as a family are about to experience.  And I’m comforted by that.  He has no concept of time, and as long as one of his parents––especially mommy at this age––are around to take care of his needs, he’ll be happy.  Elsa however, is acutely aware that daddy is leaving and has no idea what this entails.  It’s a long trip, so we’ve told her.  A really long trip, and it crushes me to have her hero taken away from her for so long.

I sat there holding Gunnar, listening to the soft suckle of his thumb while his fingers played out an orchestrated movement through his strawberry blond hair, and it hit me just how much they will change this next year while their dad is away, and it saddened me deeply.  We will keep in touch using Skype or what have you, but it’s not the same as sitting in the same room with your child, comforting them as they fall back into a deep slumber.  I know there is little time before he leaves, but he has even less time to soak up those kids… every nuance, every hilariously awful thing they say, and do! I don’t want him to miss a thing.

As far as figuring out life is concerned, I have yet to do that… and hell, I may never, but today I need to focus on being strong for my kids, my husband and me. There’s so little time to do anything else.

Dear God,

As you know, there is nothing “normal” about us.  We don’t have a typical army job where we are stationed somewhere and then move every few years.  We are an army reserve family, the red headed stepchild of the army.  And for the past four years we have moved where the jobs (missions) are located.  We don’t live on base and make a bunch of friends.  We tend to be a little more isolated.  So I can’t compare myself fully to my army-wife counterparts.  The only thing I share with them is that my husband also serves and has been deployed several times.  I understand their plight, their worries, their exhaustion… but little else.  I have never technically PCS’d.  I’ve packed and hired movers.  I’ve been the CEO of this household.

Remember when the economy went into the crapper 5 years ago, and Craig worked for one of the largest banking firms in the country?  Remember how we found ourselves looking at alternatives to making a living for our family?  As you know, I wrote about all of this in excruciating detail back then, which of course coincided with my postpartum depression after Elsa’s birth–NOT a shining moment for me personally.  Well, he moved to GA, and one year later, my daughter and I moved to be with him… with the prospect of more positions like these in our future.  Cut to the future.  Three years later, and two moves, we find ourselves in AL.  And other than the tornados, I actually like it here. On a side note, thank you for sparing our home during last year’s epic storms.  If you recall, I huddled in the closet with both children clutched to my breast, closed my eyes and spoke your name many times.  I digress, the weather is great, the people are friendly and I finally know my way around the city.  I’ve even become used to the south and all of its intricacies/oddities.  You know what I’m talking about there, don’t you?  I mean, really with all the fried food and weird racial tension?  Anyhow, now that I’ve become somewhat comfortable, it is time yet again to look where we are headed.  At this point I have no idea where this is.  This has become difficult for us to say the least.

Craig’s options are limited. One:  deployment… ugh.  That sounds terrible for so many reasons, and you know how I get when I’m alone for too long… we won’t go into that here.  Two:  find a job here. That’s easier said than done.  Three:  Go back to VT.  No way in hell. It’s true.  It is beautiful there, but you and I both know how I like it hot… and it’s way too cold there, and I’m not up for moving across the country AGAIN unless it’s for good.  Last, but certainly not least… Four:  Winning the HGTV Dream Home.  Now I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up, but I feel fairly certain that I could win this.  1 in 4 billion are really good odds to me at this point, and let’s face it, this letter to you would be moot.

Hence this note to you… and really to anyone who can identify in ANY way, shape, or form with our situation.  I am praying for a decent outcome… nothing perfect.  I don’t expect that. I don’t expect a lot of things at this point… but if you could give me a shout when you’re not busy taking care of the sick and wounded, I’d appreciate it.

Your humble servant,

Nissa

I haven’t posted in a long time.  I assume it’s because I have had too much going on in my little brain to try to put it all down in a meaningful way.  This past year has been an interesting one… we’ve had a few friends pass as well as friend’s parents.  And all of that has put a damper on what has been a pretty mellow year––aside from a few tornadoes of course.  I  miss them,  my friends,  not the tornadoes;  and I can’t help but to think of their families this time of year and how difficult it must be to see joy in any of the festivities.  Yet even while I think of my friends and their families,  I tend to mire in my own b.s.,  which makes me feel sort of pathetic because I don’t have much to complain about.  I really don’t.  Anything I am dealing with pales in comparison to those of you who are dealing with sick children or parents… so I won’t use this forum as a platform to complain about anything as mundane as my own life.  Well,  maybe just a little.

Craig continues to do well in the army and now we’re awaiting word as to what we’ll be doing next summer, which always brings an uncomfortable amount of anxiety my way.  Unlike the majority of our friends,  my kids won’t grow up in the same house they were born in.  Instead,  we’ll be moving to and fro,  like a ship in an unrelenting sea.  Some days I’m okay with this lot,  while there are others where I’m less secure about that fact.  You see,  when we married,  14 years ago,  he was merely a Reservist with a “regular” job.  But eight years ago,  when the war in Iraq started,  he began to get deployed,  something that was very new to me… not to him certainly,  but to me.  Now it seems to be old hat.  And I’m,  for lack of better words, used to it.  But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.  Or does it?  My army wife friends would tell me to “suck it up,”  and rightly so, as that’s what I’d tell them to do as well.  But my non army wife friends always feel sorry for me,  and say things like,  ”I don’t know how you do it,”  which is just an annoying way of saying,  ”I’d NEVER do that.”  Oddly enough, neither one of these sentiments is going to work for me.  I think I am looking at something in the middle.  I don’t know what that saying is,  but something in the middle.

This next year I am going to focus on looking at things less in the middle.  Words like  ”decisive”  and  ”definitive”  will be incorporated into my vocabulary.  This goes against my better judgment as I tend to be a little dramatic about all things.  But I will do my best to more  ”kick-ass”  and less  ”ass-kicked”  in my near future.  Until then,  I want to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  May the remainder of your winter months be filled with adventure or enlightenment… whichever life has set out for you.  Sometimes both.  But I hope for your sake,  it’s somewhere in the middle.

When I was a senior in high school, before school’s end, everyone had to go talk to his or her  ”guidance counselor”.  I distinctly remember him asking me what I wanted to do with my life.  As he well knew,  I had not applied to a single college.  And as a second Ferguson to leave the ranks of Wasson High School,  he knew that I wouldn’t be applying any time soon.  The Ferguson kids didn’t do that.  We didn’t come from the traditional American family.  At the time, this was something I was so proud of.  We were the rebels.  My father the artist,  and my mother,  floating like a butterfly in and out of contract jobs was our way of life.  We never had money.   And my father wasn’t one to discuss the trappings of the liberal education.  It was a place where Americans’ brains go to die.  It was a place where your intellect would sooner leave your conscience than become something more worthy of your community.  No,  the message in our house was  ”work hard,  but not too hard.”  Enjoy life.  Something will come your way to sustain you.  I sat across my counselor and said,  with all sincerity,  ”I don’t know.  But I want to be something great.”

He scoffed.  ”Well,  that’s nice, but not realistic.”  I sat there, dismayed actually.  I wanted to hear something back with more of a sales approach.  He could’ve lied.  I would’ve preferred it.

Here I am nearly 20 years later.  My daughter sits across from me, covered in Crayola markers,  intent on creating some serious art all while singing a song about tooting into the whicker chair she sits upon.  I know what you’re thinking,  she comes from a long line of classy.  When I belch as hard as I can,  my son will yell,  ”Ma!”  and in his best 18 month old grammar,  ”Ewww.”  This of course makes my daughter and I laugh our butts off.  These are the things that we do when daddy’s gone at work. Much to his dismay of course.  He truly is from a long line of classy,  and rules.  The midwesterner in him is intent,  at all times,  on ensuring no one gets hurt,  or makes lewd noises with their bodies… not that he is perfect by any means.  I should at least preface this little post with that tidbit.  He’s as much a “guy”  as they come.  All stinky and mannish. But there’s always that double standard.

But let’s face it,  our differences go far beyond the belching and cursing.  Did I mention the cursing?  Yeah.  I do that too.  I try not to do it front of the kids of course.  I’m not a redneck.  But I have slipped a few “shit” moments into the universe,  and only once has my daughter ratted me out to daddy about it.  Thank God.  However,  Craig and I differ on larger issues.  Like politics.  We got into it the other day over the Occupy Wall Street movement.  He was making fun of it and I was defending it to the core.  Of course.  I’m a liberal through and through.  And I’m proud of it.  And he’s conservative… and just as proud.  While we were arguing,  and it was getting more and more heated,  I really wanted to smack him one.  But instead,  we rattled down the road in our Volvo,  while our children listened intently to our stupid conversation.  My daughter finally said,  ”Hey you two!  No more fighting!”  And Craig said,  ”We aren’t fighting honey. Your mom just can’t make an informed opinion about her “cause”.”  I shot a look at him that could’ve killed,  and she said,  ”If I have to come up there!”  Which made us both laugh,  and stopped our arguing.

Yet here I sit,  writing this nonsense,  about nothing that anyone really cares about,  and that’s okay; because I’m practicing you see.  For something bigger.  Something great.

During Fall Break my husband and two kids traveled to Destin,  Florida to take in the beautiful weather and spend some quality time on the beach.  After spending an entire day packing and cleaning, it was time to hit the road.  A drive to Destin from Huntsville is 7 hours, give or take.  But I was ready.  I had the snacks,  the movies,  the whole nine yards.  We were ready to go.  After strapping a reluctant Gunnar into the car,  we started a movie.  My daughter tells me she wants to watch  ”The Little Mermaid,”  but I know that won’t last.  Ten minutes into the movie,  she’s asking me to put in “Chicken Little”.  I sigh a little sigh,  and attempt my first of many backseat maneuvers to change out the disc. Done.  Hours later, the kids are asleep and we’re pushing through to get to our destination before midnight.  My husband and I laugh at all of the odd sights in the south.  The giant peach water tower in Clanton,  AL that looks like a huge, glowing ass from the highway… especially when it’s all lit up––which they do on purpose.  Then we laugh at all the tiny towns that have one company that sustains them, like Dongwon.  That’s my husband’s personal favorite.  ”Hey honey, want to work at DONGWON?  Then we quiz one another on what we think one does at Dongwon.  Without Googling it, he nails it.  Automotive parts.  I’m terrible at those games.  They have a sad little picnic table outside and it’s nearly 11pm,  and the parking lot is full.  3rd shift,  I think.  Bummer.  But hey, folks have to work!  So there you have it… Dongwon.   Okay, admittedly, it is funny to say over and over again.

We stop at this gas station in the middle of nowhere,  probably the last one before we start heading over the water,  and we try to accomplish pee breaks without waking the kids.  Well, the blaze of  white neon cascading over the hood of the car woke them up almost instantly, so we decide to take turns heading into the station.  Gunnar squints painfully in his carseat as if to say,  ”Really?  Really?  Damn it’s bright.”  I take him out of the car to change his diaper on the tail-gait while a middle-aged woman,  skin leathered from the sun,  sits in her beat up Saturn to smoke her cigarettes.  A young man gets out and disappears into the dark.  Her window is rolled all the way down,  and the tin sound of Keith Urban escapes clumsily from the car’s old speakers.  I don’t mind the Keith Urban part… but I am wondering where on earth the young man went who so quickly exited the car.  It quickly comes to mind that they are locals.  And we don’t belong here.  Hmmm.  Where did that kid go?  I think to myself.  Suddenly from behind,  another car breaches the lot,  this time it’s full of young black men with really long do-rags adorning their pubescent heads.  One of the men looks at me and smiles wide while taking a long draw on what appears to be a Swisher Sweet cigar.  It’s cheap and it smells horrid. I don’t know what they’re up to,  but just like the woman next to us,  I’m assuming no good.  I look anxiously into the store to see where my husband is,  but he’s not in sight.  I’m not too worried… you just get that feeling that you’re not in the right place at the right time, you know?   A blonde woman swings the door open and heads toward her car,  where I notice her husband has been protectively watching our vehicle.  She adjusts something for one of her kids in the backseat and he motions her to get going.  Just then,  Craig appears.  Red Bull in hand,  he’s ready to go.  We laugh about it on the way out of the parking lot because the south can be such a weird place.  It’s poor.   So poor.  And regardless of race,  you could be on the losing end of a mugging.  This is where our minds wander as we await one another at creepy gas stations in the middle of nowhere,  but truth be told… no one did a damn thing.  We survived. And we made it to our destination without a scratch.

‘I’m losing this battle.’  This is what I thought to myself while my daughter lost her grip on reality,  and my toddler was screaming  ”mommy”  from his crib.  The two of them crying with such force literally made my ears ring and I wanted to retreat somewhere quiet.  Somewhere else.  Of course there was no retreating to be done. Instead I battled it out with the oldest in the hopes that the baby would give up his fight and go to sleep.  My bet paid off.

As he drifted into slumber, my daughter lay on my bed with tear stained cheeks,  still pleading for ice cream. “PLEEEEASE MOMMY!”

I shot daggers at her with my eyes and said,  ”No,”  for the 40th time. I told her it was best to let me cool off before continuing her begging. She looked at me with agreement and let me get to my shower.

I stood there in the hot water thinking about the morning.  What had I done wrong?  We went to the playground topped off with lunch at Chick Fil A and yet more germ-infested playground time there.  How do these outings turn into such drama-fests at the end?  It’s a crapshoot really.  I mean,  sometimes things go so well that I wonder what happened and who my angelic children are.  And today,  like most days,  I look at my girl with complete confusion.  Really?  You’re going to talk to me like that?  And then ask for ice cream?  Now,  I know my daughter has little reasoning abilities and is only beginning to understand that she can manipulate me with kindness to get her way,  but sometimes I just don’t get what happens between the hours of  ’I'm awake’  and  ’Go the frick to bed’.  I feel like it’s a blur. And I would LOVE to go an entire day without yelling at her. I’ve tried. I’ve even gone so far as to plead with her… but my tactics have yet to be 100% successful.  I’d continue writing this blog and get my venting completely out,  but she just informed me that she dipped her brother’s toothbrush in the toilet.  I have to look at the bright side,  at least she didn’t flush it.

I have been doing a lot of soul searching as of late… hence the absence of any writing.  I’ve been considering writing a book. Yes, a book.  But this would entail me having some kind of creative drive, which lately I don’t seem to possess.  My daughter,  who will be four in September is on track to completing her first total mommy take down. And I just can’t let her do it… just yet.  For the past five days she has done her best to use all of the foul language she knows, which consists of  ”God dangit,”  ”Hell,”  and  ”Shut your mouth,”  all things that she knows will set me into mommy orbit.  She has also given into tantrums that have been epic in proportion.  The odd thing is that she would never do this in front of anyone but me, which has its positives.  Right?

Today I reached a low.  Not an all-time low, because I really didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of me, but the effort was exhausting.  While shopping for school supplies at Target, my daughter asked for a toy.  I told her no and she abruptly threw her flip flops into the children’s clothing section.  This diversion allowed her to run at full speed through the shopping complex while screaming “I don’t love you!” at the top of her lungs.  As I write this I am smiling.  I suddenly find this so damn funny.  I quickly took Gunnar out of the cart, and ran after her… as fast as I could with a 25lb toddler in my arms.  When I got to her, an elderly woman decked out in her fuschia-flowered blouse scowled at both my child and myself with disgust.  Clearly my daughter was the product of poor parenting.  Sigh.  I grabbed my possessed daughter and escorted her to where her shoes had been tossed.  We left the store with nothing. Nothing.  Wait, I left with a headache.  She left with nothing.

When we reached the house, and I had unlatched her seatbelt, she climbed down from her seat and ran down the sidewalk in the scorching Alabama sunshine.  She yelled, “I am NEVER coming back!” Gunnar and I walked slowly down the street to where she was again removing the flip flops to drop them into the street.  Once she had done so, she immediately began to cry that her feet were too hot and that she was going to burn up! Sigh.

After the longest time-out in Weisser history I decided that I too needed one.  I really just craved a moment to myself.  I’m not sure what I’d do in that time.  Most likely I’d laugh uncontrollably until I’d cry, but I could just take a nap… sleep it all away.  I understand that this is all developmental and that “it’ll pass,” but it really sucks. The only thing I do know… is that I have become that mother that loses it in public… not enough to call social services over, but enough to go, “Oh my God… is she okay?” and that flip flops are forever banned from outings.