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.

They do hear it from me,  ”Thank you,” that is.  Because I am truly thankful.  When you live far away from your family,  you end up creating new ones.  I’ve been in Huntsville for two and a half years and I’ve met some incredible,  selfless people.  I’ve never been one to ask for help as I thought this made a person rather weak,  but once I learned my husband was being deployed again,  I knew I’d have a tough time doing everything on my own.  And I’ve learned to ask for help.  Whether that was help getting the garage completed before Craig left,  friends bringing dinner to me instead of going out,  or just coming over to chat and share a glass of wine,  I am thankful beyond words.  Every time someone does something for me,  i.e. picks up Gatorade and diapers, etc.  I start to wonder how on earth can I repay them for their kindness.  In my mind,  a Hallmark card just won’t do their deeds justice.  All I can say is that I am their friend too.  And when the time comes that they need help with something, I’ll do as much for them as I possibly can… of course!  But when they don’t need something from me, other than my friendship,  I hope I do them justice.  I hope I give compliments when needed,  an ear when they need to get something off their chests,  and sound advice when they ask for it.

As I lay in bed yesterday,  feeling close to death with a 24 hour stomach virus,  I was completely at ease knowing that my friend came to get the kids to play with her kids for the day.  And they had a great time.  The best time.  And they missed me,  and asked me not to be sick anymore.  I suppose this was my  ”Thank you for being our mommy,”  moment.  I’ll take it.

*

I could hear Gunnar laughing at Scooby Doo and Batman in my bedroom,  so I quickly peeked my head around the corner to check in on him.  There he sat, seemingly swallowed up by the King sized down comforter, piled around his tiny frame.  ”Are you cozy?”  I asked.

“Yeah.  Mom?  Scooby Doo is funny,”  he said with a grin a mile wide.

“Scooby Doo is funny,”  I reply in support.  With that,  I withdrew into the bathroom to finish getting ready.  The mirror was still foggy from the shower and as I wiped it away,  I barely recognized the woman before me.  The internal Nissa  scoffed and said, “Ugh.”  I audibly agreed with a generous sigh.  Two pregnancies, three deployments,  and 37 years have changed the geography on my face.  The melasma I developed with Elsa still lingers on my cheeks and jawline,  claiming its territory with large, dark patches.  And after slathering hydroquinone and every other dermatological find on the market for the past 5 years,  I’ve sort of given up on it.  Like a surgeon,  I deftly open the Dior box and slide the sponge out, and draw it quickly across the tawny foundation.  With just a few short strokes,  the patchiness dissipates and a clearer complexion stares back at me.  As I continue my assault on my now mature skin, I can’t help but think that I never used to be this girl.  This girl that worried about makeup and peoples’ opinions.  I was fresh faced,  athletic and didn’t have to worry about such things.  I never thought I was beautiful,  but was confident enough to go without piles of makeup everywhere I went.  Perhaps,  as my mother always says,  it’s the Colorado girl in me.  I just never felt it was necessary.

Looking ever closer,  I focus on the tiny lines, spread like silken webs from the corners of my eyes.  They are a permanent tattoo of all the laughter,  tears,  and sun I’ve had in my short 37 years on this planet.  From the Ferguson house to the Weisser house,  I have managed to drag myself along,  every step of the way––and it shows.  I dab another product into this area,  something from Malley called the “eraser”.  And it works.  Within seconds,  the lines have been miraculously filled with some kind of silicon.  This is my best guess.  I am no chemist.  It works.  The shit works.  As I reach into my tool bag for an eye liner,  I look down at my belly.  No longer taut from  a c-section,  it has been permanently stretched out.  It’s true,  I have some badass abs,  and I work my tail off for them,  but it will never look the same.  Ever.  And I’m trying to come to terms with this.  It isn’t easy.  These days,  I am in a constant state of reflection.  I keep thinking that if I work hard enough on my body and look past all of these lines upon my face,  I will see things more clearly.  I draw the last line upon my eye,  smear it gently with a soft lid brush, and step back for a final look.  And I don’t see them,  the answers that is.  Yes, the lines are gone, but the questions linger.  I can’t help it.  I’m a stay at home mommy existentialist.

As I take in this day’s self examination,  I realize that none of what I am looking at is what it seems.  And none of the answers I seek will be there.  She is merely the older version of me.  My id is winking at me.  I am growing up.  No,  those lines are finer than they appear,  and no matter what I try to cover them with,  they will always remain.  They hold the mysteries to my soul after all.  And only one person really knows what’s lurking in there… the good and the bad.  And I miss him terribly.  All of this “fixing,” i.e. my body,  my skin,  etc.  won’t change the fact that my husband is away.  It won’t make it easier.  I can’t hide it,  or undo it.  Alas,  I have done my best with the palette in front of me,  so I work my way into my bedroom.  I lean down to kiss Gunnar still lounging in his afternoon bliss.  ”Mommy,” he says.

“Yeah buddy,”  I say.

“You’re a pretty mommy.”

And it all melts away.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.