I sit at the edge of my bed, staring out into the darkness splashed across the golf course behind our home.  Resting my feet upon the heat register, I inhale the warm, spring air, metallic and lilac through the screen.  The house is calm as the cats chase one another down the hallway, awakening the floorboards, creaking and whining as they make their way toward my room.  Yeti, a giant, longhaired calico climbs into my lap, purring soft and sweet.  “Hi kitty,” I say.  I listen as my daughter, Elsa sighs and babbles in her sleep and wonder what she is dreaming about.  Tonight, like most nights, I remain awake to wrestle with my loneliness.  I rest my head in the palm of my hands and stare out the window at the brilliant pathways above in search of answers.  I wish I could disappear into the sea of light.  But I don’t.  Instead, I lay back against the smooth, cool linen to reach for someone who isn’t there.  A year has passed since he left and I am anxious for our family to be together again.

*

We had gone to lunch to discuss his deployment and ended up walking around a Kmart in search of an exersaucer, but our mission, on so many levels had been unsuccessful.  Afterward, we sat in the car in front of my office, neither of us saying anything.  I was full of a rage that I cannot remember ever feeling before or since.  I knew he wanted me to get out, to leave him in peace, but I couldn’t make myself do it.  I looked at the dust caked to the dashboard and it irritated me that he hadn’t cleaned the car.  “How can you not see how hard this is for me?” I asked.  “I can’t believe this is happening.  This is so like you.  Not that you’d know anything about raising her.  I do it by myself anyway.”  I was dramatizing the truth about our 7-month old, but I turned to him as I said this, an indictment on his apparent inability to provide for us.  I wanted to drive a stake into the heart of virility.  He said nothing.  “Aren’t you going to say something?” I took a breath before, “and when was the last time you cleaned your car? It’s disgusting.”  I wiped my finger across the dusty film to reveal the clean blue patina beneath.

He leaned his head against the window, angry and distant.  “Can you hear yourself? You’re so…mean.  I can’t take it anymore.  This is ridiculous.  No one should have to live like this.”

I could hear myself.  Granted, it may have been overkill to go berserk over not being able to find the Rainforest exersaucer at Kmart, but Christ, there are no stores in this godforsaken town and my girl needed one! When it came down to it, I hated him, but to be fair, I hated it all: my body, my skin, my lack of self-confidence, having to go back to work after Elsa was born––everything.  To make matters worse, the economy was tanking during my obvious postpartum depression, and I wasn’t going to give in.  I wanted to win­­––at what I will never know.

“Fuck this,” I said.  “I didn’t sign up for this.” Craig didn’t reach for me as I opened the car door.  For the first time in our marriage, I didn’t care.  I got out of the car and stormed toward my office.  When I had crossed the street, I thought he would be long gone, but he wasn’t.  I realized what I had done and I ran back to the car in a panic.  I opened the passenger door and sat next to him.  “Please don’t leave me,” I pleaded.  “I don’t want to do this alone.  I’m already so tired.”

Craig put his hand gently on my knee.  “I don’t want to go.  I want to stay here with you and Elsa…of course.” He was still looking straight ahead.

He knew that his days in the financial industry were numbered and this was the only way to take care of us.  “I know,” I said.  My heart sank as I dug deep to find the words or actions to reassure him.  I reached slowly for his hand and laced my fingers within his––my one and only peace offering.  “Oh yeah…and I’ll get help with the whole psycho thing.” He turned to me and smiled.

Two months and two bottles of antidepressants later, I watched my husband pack his belongings into large canvas bags.  Helping him pull the last of his items together, I felt as though someone had stolen my breath.  I simply couldn’t form any words, any last thoughts or comments about his leaving.  I knew what was coming, the absence of a father for our daughter, loneliness for my partner––simply a long year of unknowns lay ahead.  “You’ll be able to make it back for her first birthday, right?” I asked, knowing he couldn’t make the promise.

“I’ll do everything I can to get back for it.  It’s important to both of us.”

I bit into my lower lip to keep the tears from falling.  He had been sincere and it’s all I could’ve asked for.  Elsa was 10 months old.  Everyone told me she would never remember his absence.  “She’ll be fine,” they’d say.  I too was sure she would make it through this deployment emotionally unscathed.  After all, he was going to be in the states.  It was so different from his last tour.  He’ll visit every month.  We’ll be a great team, El and I.  No problem.  Craig opened his arms and Elsa reached for him.  “Bye baby.  You know daddy loves you, right?” Elsa’s cerulean eyes lit up as she snuggled into his chest.  I swallowed hard as he peppered her with kisses.  What she didn’t know was killing me.  He handed her back to me and we embraced one last time.  I cried the first of many tears as we watched him turn the corner and disappear.  Elsa was still holding her hand up, opening and closing it in ciao fashion.  “Bye daddy,” I whispered and kissed her on the forehead.

For the first five months of his tour, Elsa could never seem to recover from the colds being germinated at her daycare center, which always turned into ear infections, so I had to leave the office at least once a week to pick her up.  Being torn between work and home was taxing.  I felt self-conscious at every turn.  My boss thinks I’m a shit employee.  I’m going to lose my job.  If I were him, I’d fire my ass.  They can’t count on me.  I’m a fucking basket case. These kinds of thoughts consumed me, so I worked nights to make up for what I had missed during the day.  I was terrified a ball would drop and that a client would call to complain. Although my boss has never confirmed my insecurities about my employment or said anything directly to me over the past year, I’ve certainly felt the tension in random comments, slipped deftly into uncomfortable moments between us.

I will never forget the night I was coming down with strep throat.  Elsa had just gotten over one of her colds and was feeling better, so she was running around the house like a madwoman, pulling down everything in her path.  Her energy had returned as mine waned.  I was trying to put her to bed for the fourth time that evening and she pushed away from me to run down the hallway.  I kneeled on the floor next to her crib with my hands open upon my lap.  “Please come to mommy,” I implored.  Elsa gave me her widest Cheshire grin and turned to run.  “Please…please…” but I received no response.  Instead of getting up to chase after her, I collapsed to the floor and lay against the soft carpet.  I wanted to die.  She realized that I wasn’t going to get up, so she ran back to me with open arms.

“Mommy!” she said as she threw her arms around my neck.

“Baby,” I said, wrapping my arms around her.  She stood up and motioned for me to put her in the crib.  “Okay,” I said.  I lifted her up, which at the time felt like 1000 lbs.  I went to bed that night knowing that my “rest” was only going to last until the alarm clock went off the following morning.  I still needed to get up, get her lunch ready for daycare and prepare her for the day.  I cried myself to sleep that night.  I would’ve done anything for an extra pair of hands––and the cats never offered to help.

When Craig comes home to visit, he is no longer a member of the house, but a visitor.  In the beginning, he had been able to get home three days out of the month, which eventually turned into two-month spreads without him.  These breaks mean that I’ll get to “sleep in” once or twice.  The closer it comes to his arrival, the more eagerly I count down the moments to sleep.  It also means that we’ll get to go on a date.  I crave adult interaction and to eat a meal without policing a toddler more than anything.  Unfortunately, once he returns, it generally takes me two days to stop resenting him, which leaves me with only a day to love him.  It’s a vicious cycle.

Eight months into his tour, a nor’easter bore down on Vermont, and our dreams of a date-night were beginning to fade.  At the last minute, grandma offered to watch Elsa, so we jumped at the opportunity to get out––even though I had been mad at him the entire day.  We wanted to go to our favorite restaurant––a small, romantic venue where a skilled chef creates heavenly cuisine from locally harvested foods.  The smaller, local businesses closed due the weather, so the only thing left to us was a Texas Roadhouse––Americana at its best.  I tried to look past my feelings, so we could enjoy our time together, but when a half-dozen fervent teenage girls greeted us at the hostess stand, my resentment grew into irritation.  “Welcome to the Texas Roadhouse!” exclaimed the one in front.  They reminded me of meercats, each one alert and standing at the attention of their leader.  We waded through a sea of Vermonters to get to our table, which was staffed by another vivacious young woman sporting a ponytail and alabaster teeth.  I was beginning to note a pattern in the hiring practices.  She took our order and brought two giant, “Texas-sized” beers to our table.

I took a long draw on the mug.  “So…what are your plans?”

Craig looked at me critically.  He knew what mood I was in and was ready for my attack.  “I’ll probably extend another year and then go full-time…if I can.”

“I see.” His lack of planning terrified me.  I wanted to hear that we were going to get things moving, that we would be together sooner than later.  I was exhausted and ready for our arrangement to end.

“What’s wrong now?” he asked.  “I don’t know what you want from me, but—

“How’re those drinks treatin’ ya?” Her timing was impeccable.  I spoke quietly and didn’t make eye contact.  I felt that if I looked at anyone, even the nubile sprite before me, that they would see just how vulnerable I was.

While nibbling at our barbeque, Craig and I argued amidst the clamor of the restaurant.  Suddenly, a group of employees jumped into action at the sound of the music.  The song, indiscernible to me, resounded through the crowd over the speakers while a line of excitable youth danced about and yelled, “Yahoo!” Craig and I could no longer hold on to our anger.  We both cracked a smile and began to laugh.  We realized the absurdity of holding a serious discussion in such bizarre surroundings and the heaviness was lifted from our shoulders––for at least awhile.  Staring at him across the table, I could see that his intentions for our family were genuine­­––that he wasn’t torturing me––and that I probably wouldn’t become a regular at the Texas Roadhouse.

*

A year has passed and I await our reunion; I dream of him.  I turn to him, to feel his lips upon my cheek.  He caresses my skin and whispers, “You’re so beautiful.” Like young lovers, he wants only me.  I look into his intense green eyes, teaming with all of life’s mystery.  I want him to love me, to turn me gently, my back rounded to fit within the half moon of his stomach. I was meant to be there––where nothing can happen to me.  His breath is playful on my neck as his strong arms are snug around my waste…this is heaven.  I startle to the sound of my daughter in the throws of a night terror.

I sit near her crib, monitoring her through the white slats.  Once she is calm, I lay on the floor of her room where baby-powder fragranced products and her sweet breath fill the air.  It isn’t the arms of my lover; it’s another universe entirely.  I like to come in here, to be at peace with myself––with the world.  I play the past year back in slow motion and find comfort in the details, her first words, skinned knees, funny faces, time-outs, the wind in her hair, the words “I love you,” all pieces of our time together I will never forget.  I think about the demons I have struggled with.  I may have burrowed deep into places I thought I would never go.  I may have become stronger.  I may have cried harder.  I may have been more vulnerable.  I may have been angrier.  I may have spit venom at everyone.  I may have hated.  I may have cursed God, but I have never loved another with more intensity than I do at this very moment, under the veil of nightfall.  The amber stars are still aglow in a simple pattern across the ceiling.  Tonight, I don’t want to disappear.  I am exactly where I am meant to be.

I hate daycare.  Really, I hate it.  It is a giant Petri dish of constant runny noses and grubby hands.  That Petri dish contributed to a six-month stint of colds, ear infections, surgery to place tubes in ears, viruses and a severe case of bronchiolitis that eventually landed us in the emergency room.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  When my daughter was nearly nine-months-old, my husband was deployed stateside, leaving us to continue on with our lives in Vermont without him.  Before our bundle of joy entered the world, everything had been about my husband and me.  We were out of touch with our friends’ parental concerns and enjoyed our independence.  We took advantage of those last moments of freedom because we knew what was coming––or so we thought.  Looming in the distance was the weighty stress of my job, postpartum depression, a house to take care of, inherent loneliness, and an inordinate amount of viruses.  Somewhere between running to the store for infant Tylenol and finding my stride as a mother, I grew up.

When my daughter was ten-months-old she got her first ear infection.  Soon after, I was inducted, as so many parents have been before me, into the mystifying world of antibiotics.  As directed, I compressed the thick, coral colored amoxicillin into my screaming child’s mouth twice a day for two weeks.  And she would then spit it out, generally onto whatever I was planning to wear to work that day.  My pediatrician warned me that my daughter “could get some diarrhea” from the antibiotics and not to worry about it.  Could? Oh, she got it all right.  The poor little thing exploded time and time again, coating everything in her path.  Being a new mother, I thought that her reaction was normal, so each and every day I would wrestle her to the floor, squeeze her supple cheeks and quickly inject the syrupy mess as far back as possible.  And what do you know? Explosion baby would strike again.  I would hold her up, legs kicking and run her to the nearest faucet.  Needless to say, I begrudged my husband’s absence and I wanted him to suffer the way I was suffering.  After cleaning up yet another mess, I took her back to the pediatrician’s––only to find out she was allergic to the medication.

Months later after enduring more illnesses and late nights, my daughter ran a high fever and began coughing severely.  Up until that point, I had been pretty resilient, but this was terrifying.  I lay awake listening to her labored breathing over the monitor.  When she began to cough uncontrollably, I raced into her room.  She coughed so hard that she vomited in her bed.  No longer an infant, my sixteen-month-old daughter cried for help.  “Mommy!” She held up the soiled bedding as if she had been embarrassed by what had happened.

“I have it honey,” I said calmly.  Inside, my head was reeling and my heart was pounding, but I didn’t want her to see it.  I lifted her from her bed and she rested her weary, tear-stained cheek against my chest.  With my one free arm, I reached into her crib and removed the sheets.  Her coughing continued.  I took her into the bathroom and turned on the shower.  Her naked frame clung to my body as the water rolled off of her back.  I felt that we had been standing there for hours, and perhaps we were, but when she was able to relax and stop coughing so hard, I breathed a sigh of relief.  The coughing and late nights continued for weeks and sleep evaded my every attempt to harness it.  I was angry with my husband for leaving me, for not being there to provide the support I so desperately needed and for not being witness to the suffering of our daughter.  I never once resented her, but I resented my situation.

After yet another coughing bout, I sat up and listened for the inevitable, “Mommy.”  I swung my legs slowly to the side of my bed, knowing that another long night lay ahead.  I took my sobbing toddler downstairs where I turned on some music in the dark.  It seemed to take her mind off of her coughing and she rested her head on my shoulder.  Her chubby left hand stroked the silk string on my nightshirt.  Ray LaMontagne’s voice hung gently in the air before laying its warm reassuring blanket around us.  In the gentle stillness of that moment, the words from Let it Be Me took on an entirely new meaning.

There may come a time / A time in everyone’s life / Where nothing seems to go your way / Where nothing seems to turn out right / That’s when you need someone / Someone that you can call / And when all your faith is gone / Feels like you can’t go on / Let it be me…

I used to think it was about me.  I used to think it was about my husband coming home to save me from our circumstance, and it wasn’t.  It was about her.  It was about what she needed from me.  I knew, for the first time since her birth that I loved her more deeply than I had given myself the opportunity to understand.  These––illnesses and late nights, and time spent away from work were part of the gig.  Any resentment I had been harboring drifted away almost instantly.  As we slow danced through the blackened universe that night, I held tight to her love and let the tears roll down my face––a baptism into a thing called motherhood.

When I feel lost or uncertain, I think about hot, dry desert air and windswept prairies.  I dream of wide-open spaces dotted by yuccas and cacti overshadowed by the dramatic rise of the Rocky Mountains.  On days like today, I think about home.  The romanticized landscape of my Colorado youth drips like sweet honey upon my tongue––sweet and unforgettable.

I have lived in Vermont for the past 8 years and have enjoyed New England for all of its virtues.  It took awhile, but the Yankees eventually embraced us and we’ve become a part of this small state’s charm and progressive nature.  The long, bitter winters make everyone a little cranky and nuts, so spring is rung in with a kiss of the ground, and a prayer that a fluke snow storm doesn’t ruin new plantings. 

So here I am…awaiting my eventual departure from this state and region I have grown to know and love so well to head south, a territory I know nothing about.  Recently I took a flight with my daughter to Columbus, Georgia where my husband greeted me with open-arms and a gift.  He purchased two half days at a spa for me.  I would be pampered from head to toe with everything from a facial to a pedicure.  I was so excited to get a break from my every day responsibilities with my little one and enjoy some peace and quiet. 

I quickly learned that quiet would not apply to my experience.  Southern women like to talk.  I learned everything about Mary Kate’s divorce and her disdain for men who won’t pay their share on a date and how my aesthetician, Candy, will never marry again because her son is all she needs in this world.  He’s fifteen now, but she’ll still get up in the middle of the night to fix him a sandwich if he’s hungry or rub his back until he falls asleep.  Ashley, my masseuse reminded me that things are still “backward” in the South, i.e. black people are not supposed to date white people.  That “…it’s a flaw we’re working on, but it’s the way it is.  I guess it’s just a Southern thang.”  From my first one-on-one conversations with three different women, men were the apparent focus of all conversations and kings of all that is good and evil. 

To top off my first Southern experience, Candy asked if I’d like a makeup consultation.  Like a rabbit being chased for sport, I responded with a quick, “Um, sure.”  This woman wanted to shake any remaining crunchiness out of me and I didn’t want to be rude.

“Okay honey… you just sit down right here and a’ll be right back.”

I sat in the unique, makeup application chair and awaited her instruction.  Before she applied the first layer, I said, “I don’t wear a lot of makeup, so go easy.”

“Oh of course,” she said before she proceeded to put coating after coating on my face with a trowel. 

Because there wasn’t a mirror near me, I couldn’t see the progress.  Women would intermittently walk by and look at me in astonishment.  “So much better,” they’d say, or “Oh yes.  Your eyes are really popping now.”

As Candy finished up, she said, “Now… don’t you look just beautiful? And it feels natural, doesn’t it?” All of the women surrounding me nodded in approval. 

“Oh yes,” I said, but was thinking more along the lines of, Hell no! It feels like I’m wearing a tub of Land O’ Lakes on my face. 

I got up from the chair and made my way toward a mirror.  As I turned the corner, I saw it.  There I was.   Holy crap.  According to the reflection staring back at me, I was ready to join Barnum and Bailey.  It had happened.  I’d been Southernized.

I got into the car and turned to my husband.  He recoiled initially, and then laughed his ass off.  “Oh honey,” he said.  “You look…you look…beautiful.”

“Shut up.”

I have since recovered from my first visit to my new “home.”  Now I’m spending my last few days as a Northeasterner and looking forward to my new adventure in the South.  I’ll never be a true Southerner, but I’ll never be a true Yankee either.  I’ll always be the Colorado girl, longing for the hot dry air of the Southwest.  Where I am doesn’t matter near as much as who I’m with.  I have been away from Craig for over a year and my baby girl and I are ready to be with him.  I’ve learned that life makes plans for you and not the other way around, and as such, I’m learning to let go of what I cannot control, which isn’t my strong suit.  I’ve discovered that home isn’t a place, but whom you are with.  Craig and Elsa are my home.  And Craig, we’re coming home to you.

Tonight I sit alone with my thoughts, guided only by the light from another room.  I don’t necessarily feel as though I am lost at sea with my thoughts, but I do feel that the boat I am on is pitching, and I’m ready to get off.  Something tells me however that I need to take command of this vessel and sail it quickly into calm waters.  But I don’t know how to do it.

My husband had a very good day.  He had his annual review and was given praise for all the work he has accomplished.  I am so proud of him.  In the same breath, he told me that he could be sent to airborne school as well as Ranger school, which means more time away from me and Elsa.  I will be moving into a realm where I will be the odd-woman-out so to speak.  I will be amidst the families of active duty soldiers who can count more deployments (most likely) on one hand than I have seen in the past 11  years of my marriage to an army reservist.  There will be no whining.  There will be no sympathy for his absence.  I will simply have to put on my daily armor and go on about our lives as if this is the norm, the way things are supposed to be.  Little does he know that I do this anyway.  The only thing I complain about is being tired––because Jesus Christ, I really am, but I don’t complain.  Moving into the army way of life is an enormous change for me.  I have never lived the active duty army life and I feel as though it is an induction by fire.

I mean…I get it.  Soldiers get deployed.  When I married Craig, I had accepted his reservist status and rarely thought anything of it.  He went away once a month to do his weekend-warrior business and promptly returned home to head back into his civilian job.  I was used to it.  I have always been proud of him.  I was raised in a town where we just didn’t date army guys.  It was a huge army town and we avoided them like the plague.  Who knew that I’d be working with a guy who just so happened to be in the army reserve? I fell in love with him and the rest is history.  For a girl who never wanted to date, let alone marry an army guy, I’ve been tolerant of the frequent absenteeism.

He was deployed to Kuwait in ’04, which really sucked (story for another time) for 14 months or so and is currently living in GA while my daughter and I remain in VT. When it comes down to it, I guess I just never thought I would be alone so much––an admission I’ve been reluctant to make.  And I don’t fault him.  Oddly enough, I would rather he be in the job he is in now.  He’s happier.  He reminds me of when we first met.  He was so full of aspiration and gusto––and that has been renewed.  It’s an attractive quality.  But again, I never thought I’d spend so much of our marriage alone, and sometimes, tonight namely, it hurts.

I’m not even sure what to do with it all at this point.  I will just let it ruminate for awhile.  I’m going to head upstairs now, to the quiet of my room.  I’ll listen to the consistent drone of the dishwasher, the fuzzy interception from Elsa’s baby monitor and try to right this ship before heading off to sleep.  I will push all of these fears and uncertainties aside, so I can sleep.  But God knows that these thoughts, these idiots onboard, will do their best to make a ruckus before I actually fall asleep.  So I’m telling them now to sit down.  Sit down and stop rockin’ the fucking boat already! It’s just life.

Right?

It seems I can only remember a handful of nights of gratifying, heartbreakingly-good, can’t wait to tell my friends about it—sleep since my daughter’s birth over 20 months ago.  Due to my husband’s deployment and enduring single parenthood, those days have since eluded me.  On this night however, a gentle rain flits against the windows, which will serve as this mommy’s perfect lullaby: I am desperate for sleep. 

As I lay in the dark, I listen to the cats chasing one another down the hall.  The floor rumbles during the pursuit and Yeti, my 15lb calico vaults onto the bed.  Soon after, Buddha joins him and a WWF wrestling match ensues at my feet.  “Get off,” I say sternly and push them apart.  They take off and I try to drift into my trance.  I begin a subtle mantra, rain, cool breeze, sleep, ahhhh, but it doesn’t work.  Instead I turn my attention to the monitor strategically placed within inches of my head to listen for Elsa.  I am terrified she’ll wake up again as the previous night’s tantrum left her crying intermittently between the hours of 1 and 4am.  She squeaks out a sigh of contentment and I am able to relax. 

I open and close my eyes slowly as I go in and out of sleep when I realize that I can’t stop thinking about our imminent move out-of-state.  Will we ever sell the house? Where will we live? When will we have a chance to find a place? Should I work? I wonder how hot it’ll be in Georgia in August.  All of these thoughts dance and tangle like Cirque de Soleil acrobats in my head making it impossible to sleep.  Maybe I’ll check on Elsa one last time.  I walk across her room to her crib where she is perfectly entwined with her “tee-tee”, or blanket as the rest of us call it, and I smile down at her.  Buddha and Yeti wind themselves through my legs, purring and meowing as I run my hand through Elsa’s soft, strawberry blonde locks to sweep them away from her eyes.  She’s an angel, I think to myself.  Followed by, She’s sleeping.  What the hell are you doing in here?

“Let’s go,” I say to the two cats and they follow me quickly out of her room.  I head downstairs and place a small scoop of food in their bowels.  “You two happy now?” I ask.  Neither of them says a word.  I look at the bright blue LED light displaying the time on the stove and can’t comprehend where two hours have gone.  Now I’m really tired.  I head back up the stairs, destined for my sweet, loving pillow when I hear her. 

“Mommy, mommy, mommy,” she cries.

I walk into room with my arms open to pick her up.  “What’s wrong baby?” I ask pulling her to me.  I caress her cheek and gently rub her back before laying her down.  Everything is in its place. 

I walk back to my room for the last time and glance at the clock before flopping against the sheets.  9pm had turned into the middle of the night, a time and place I have grown to know all too well.  It’s the time when silence reigns and thoughts pervade.  I close my eyes.  I am on a beach, where a warm sun heats my skin and cool waves lap at my legs.  I am alone.  No one is asking me to do anything.  I have no commitments or obligations.  I look and feel beautiful.  Someone is walking toward me.  He’s tall, dark and hands—shit, is that my alarm clock?