Since Adam’s arrival home last month, family and friends have asked many questions about how we’re doing, what his military status is, and what our plans are for the future. Since I find that the same questions arise time and again, I figured I’d answer them in one fell swoop here on the blog. But please, feel free to ask me again in person if you so choose…
1) How is Bryony adjusting to having her daddy back?
Amazingly well. I was worried that there would be some getting-to-know-you issues upon his return, but really they’ve just sunk back into their old regiment of being playmates—chasing each other around the house, tickle fights, and general goofiness. She especially likes having her daddy there during dropoff and pickup at school; I think she’s really proud to be able to show off her daddy to her friends. Adam has proven to be an engaged and really amazing dad, with far more energy for playing than I could have ever imagined!
2) How am I adjusting to having Adam back?
Just as I suspected, the first few weeks were spectacular. Even though Adam didn’t get a ticker tape parade for his homecoming, we as a family had great times, including a trip to Chicago and then travels back to Washington, DC, to see family for the holidays. Now that the fanfare has started to subside, the reality of learning to live together again has moved in. On the one hand, Adam is very task-oriented and spends the day cleaning the house, organizing our files, taking care of our finances and searching for jobs. It’s amazing. On the other hand, when he puts away dishes he doesn’t always put things where I know to find them when I’m cooking. He also has a different parenting approach (not better or worse, just different) than I do. But on the other other hand (yes, a third hand), there is absolutely nothing like going to sleep in his warm strong arms at night.
3) What is Adam’s military status?
He is currently in the Inactive Ready Reserve (IRR) but is looking for a reserve unit to affiliate with
4) Will he have to deploy again soon?
As it stands, he has a two year buffer from being deployed again (sigh of relief). Plus, he’s not currently affiliated with a unit, so right now there’s no one to deploy with. Once he finds a reserve unit to work with, he’ll have a better idea what the chances are of having to deploy again in the future. However, US troops currently are scheduled to leave Afghanistan in 2014, so hopefully he won’t be part of any mobilizations prior to the withdrawal.
5) Is he job hunting? Where?
Yes…and everywhere! So, if you know of someone looking for an attorney experienced in many aspects of the law, give us a shout. And don’t forget…he’s a veteran!
6) Sooo…are we thinking of having any more kids?
Well, let’s just say that we never intended for Bryony to be an only child, but we’ll just have to see how nature chooses to operate on this issue.
7) What’s next?
We don’t know, but we’re so excited to find out! Hoping that 2012 is the year of new opportunities and new adventures.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
A Knock at the Door
It's been an eventful evening. Fresh off a New York Giants victory over the San Francisco 49ers, Adam and I were surprised to hear Bryony wake up crying. As I went into her room to check on her, I noticed two things--Bryony standing up in her crib, wide awake, and the sole of my foot becoming oddly warm and squishy. I flipped on the light to see that I was standing in a pool of fresh vomit.
After calling out to Adam, who quickly cleaned up the mess, I prepared a bottle of Pedialyte for Bryony and sat her on the couch between us for the remainder of the evening. About an hour later, we had just finished our bedtime routine--teeth flossed and brushed, mouthwash swished--and were deciding whether Bryony would sleep in our bed or in her own crib, when there was a knock at the front door. At midnight. On our shady little street.
My heart jumped into my throat. "Adam!" I called out. He was still in the bathroom, finishing brushing his teeth. Bryony was in my arms as I bolted to him. "There's someone knocking on our front door!" His eyes widened, but then a rational calm seemed to settle over him as he instructed me to take Bryony into her bedroom. As he approached the front of the house, I called out one last instruction to him. "Look out the bedroom window first, not the front door!" He nodded and did as I asked. I peeked around Bryony's bedroom door as I watched Adam unlock and open the front door. If it had been one of our neighbors, they likely would have called out to let us know it was them, so I was quite certain it must be a stranger. I heard Adam talk softly to someone, and then say, "All I have is a cell phone." I stepped cautiously into the living room. He looked backwards at me. "She needs a phone," he said, indicating the woman on the porch.
I glanced outside, and there was a sad, crying woman on our front porch, her stringy dark hair falling over her puffy white coat as she stood pitifully, embarassed. I told Adam to let her use my cell phone, which he gave her right away. He shut the screen door on her as she made her call so as to give her privacy. I asked him if she were okay. He said she was holding her cheek as though someone had recently hit her. I winced at the thought. He glanced outside and noticed she was struggling to work my phone. I stepped outside to help her dial another number, and then another. No one picked up their phone for her. "Maybe they just don't want to pick up for a number they don't recognize," I tried to offer sympathetically. She nodded and laughed a sad, bitter laugh. Even her daughter had not answered, so the woman left a pained message. I stepped back inside as she dialed one final number.
Adam asked me if I wanted to invite her inside, as it was chilly and wet outside. My immediate answer was "No." I really did not want to invite a strange woman who had just been abused by goodness-knows-who into my house with my two-year old daughter awake and looking on. Adam coaxed me, "Come on...sometimes you have to open your arms out to a neighbor in need." I was surprised by this compassionate side of him coming out, as my husband is usually pragmatic and utterly practical about life. But he felt something for this woman in need, and I loved him for it. "Okay," I relented. I was thinking of my brother-in-law, a devout Christian, who approached a dark car one evening to offer help with directions. Upon telling him that I would never get so close to an unfamiliar car for fear of being kidnapped, shot, mugged, etc., he just shook his head and said something to the effect of "I do not walk in fear (because I have God), and I will always help someone in need." It took me off-guard at the time, and I was doubtful at first (because honestly, how many times have we heard of the good Samaritan who offers help and then gets shot in the head or mugged or raped or whatever?). But the more I thought of his words, the more I thought of another good friend, Kasey. He is not a religious man at all, but he follows my brother-in-law's mentality. Kasey would never, ever turn away someone who needed his help. I made a commitment that night to not live my life in such fear that I refrain from helping those in need.
So here I was, agreeing to let this strange woman with her problems into my house. I opened the door and asked her if she had a place to go. She nodded her head and said she lived two towns over. I asked her if she needed a ride. She hung her head, ashamed, and nodded. I invited her into the house. At first she grimaced and shook her head to refuse. It was cold outside, so I insisted. As she crossed the threshold into my home, and saw my daughter, my breath caught in my throat and my heart, I'm quite sure, stopped beating. Would she now pull a gun? Would she steal my child? Was this all a ploy just to get in our house and rob us?
But no, she gasped as she saw Bryony in her footie pajamas, playing with Thomas the Tank Engine. She took delight in the cats with their funny little names--she even recognized the Greg House reference from the tv show--as they pawed and clawed their way up her legs. And she kept apologizing for interrupting our evening. My heart poured out to her. While Adam was putting on his socks and shoes to go out to the car, she guessed how old Bryony was. "Two and a half?" she asked. "Yes!" I replied, surprised. Most people guess older because of Bryony's height. "I've got eleven," she mumbled back to me. "You have an eleven-year old?" I asked her. "No," she said, looking up at me. "I have eleven kids." Adam and I both caught our breaths at the same time. I looked more closely at this thin woman, the lines on her face a history of the hard life she'd been dealt. She apologized again for knocking on our door. I shook my head and said, "It's okay. You chose the right house."
Adam pulled the car out and she thanked me once again as she left the house to go meet him outside. I closed the door and thought again that this could be an elaborate setup. Not that it happens often, but from time to time you hear about these hoaxes where someone fakes distress to coax an unwitting person to let him/her into the house. Now Adam had this woman in our car, driving to who-knows-where. I could already see the headlines: "Two-time Iraq War Veteran Killed While Being Good Samaritan." I put Bryony to bed and hoped against hope Adam would come back all right.
Fifteen minutes later my cell phone rang. It was Adam. I expected to hear the shaky, fading voice of my husband as he lay in a ditch somewhere, dying of stab wounds. Instead, his voice was normal, if not a bit exasperated. He said they had arrived at the intersection near her home, and that 911 had been called to report whatever incident had caused her to be stranded on our street. "I'll be home soon, but don't wait up," he informed me. I was just glad the police would soon be involved.
Adam came home about 30 minutes later. His earlier compassion seemed to have morphed into mild annoyance. When I asked him what had happened to this woman, he shrugged. "A woman who chooses to be with one shiftless man after another. Evidently her current boyfriend and his buddy were driving around, and the boyfriend started beating on her. Hit her over the back, left a contusion on her face. They left her stranded out here." He shook his head, frustrated. I gave him a long, hard hug.
I was happy he was safely home. I was happy he was the kind of man to help out a stranger in need. I was happy he wasn't the kind of man who hits. Mostly, I was happy I can call him my husband.
And while I'll probably always carry a seed of paranoia (or healthy suspicion) with me, I'm hoping that this situation is the first step on my path to letting go of (at least, some of) my fear. I want to help others, and I don't want the walls of doubt and fear that I've created keep me from doing that. And I certainly don't want my current mindset to be the model I pass down to Bryony. And so, this woman, this event...has changed me. Hopefully, for the better.
After calling out to Adam, who quickly cleaned up the mess, I prepared a bottle of Pedialyte for Bryony and sat her on the couch between us for the remainder of the evening. About an hour later, we had just finished our bedtime routine--teeth flossed and brushed, mouthwash swished--and were deciding whether Bryony would sleep in our bed or in her own crib, when there was a knock at the front door. At midnight. On our shady little street.
My heart jumped into my throat. "Adam!" I called out. He was still in the bathroom, finishing brushing his teeth. Bryony was in my arms as I bolted to him. "There's someone knocking on our front door!" His eyes widened, but then a rational calm seemed to settle over him as he instructed me to take Bryony into her bedroom. As he approached the front of the house, I called out one last instruction to him. "Look out the bedroom window first, not the front door!" He nodded and did as I asked. I peeked around Bryony's bedroom door as I watched Adam unlock and open the front door. If it had been one of our neighbors, they likely would have called out to let us know it was them, so I was quite certain it must be a stranger. I heard Adam talk softly to someone, and then say, "All I have is a cell phone." I stepped cautiously into the living room. He looked backwards at me. "She needs a phone," he said, indicating the woman on the porch.
I glanced outside, and there was a sad, crying woman on our front porch, her stringy dark hair falling over her puffy white coat as she stood pitifully, embarassed. I told Adam to let her use my cell phone, which he gave her right away. He shut the screen door on her as she made her call so as to give her privacy. I asked him if she were okay. He said she was holding her cheek as though someone had recently hit her. I winced at the thought. He glanced outside and noticed she was struggling to work my phone. I stepped outside to help her dial another number, and then another. No one picked up their phone for her. "Maybe they just don't want to pick up for a number they don't recognize," I tried to offer sympathetically. She nodded and laughed a sad, bitter laugh. Even her daughter had not answered, so the woman left a pained message. I stepped back inside as she dialed one final number.
Adam asked me if I wanted to invite her inside, as it was chilly and wet outside. My immediate answer was "No." I really did not want to invite a strange woman who had just been abused by goodness-knows-who into my house with my two-year old daughter awake and looking on. Adam coaxed me, "Come on...sometimes you have to open your arms out to a neighbor in need." I was surprised by this compassionate side of him coming out, as my husband is usually pragmatic and utterly practical about life. But he felt something for this woman in need, and I loved him for it. "Okay," I relented. I was thinking of my brother-in-law, a devout Christian, who approached a dark car one evening to offer help with directions. Upon telling him that I would never get so close to an unfamiliar car for fear of being kidnapped, shot, mugged, etc., he just shook his head and said something to the effect of "I do not walk in fear (because I have God), and I will always help someone in need." It took me off-guard at the time, and I was doubtful at first (because honestly, how many times have we heard of the good Samaritan who offers help and then gets shot in the head or mugged or raped or whatever?). But the more I thought of his words, the more I thought of another good friend, Kasey. He is not a religious man at all, but he follows my brother-in-law's mentality. Kasey would never, ever turn away someone who needed his help. I made a commitment that night to not live my life in such fear that I refrain from helping those in need.
So here I was, agreeing to let this strange woman with her problems into my house. I opened the door and asked her if she had a place to go. She nodded her head and said she lived two towns over. I asked her if she needed a ride. She hung her head, ashamed, and nodded. I invited her into the house. At first she grimaced and shook her head to refuse. It was cold outside, so I insisted. As she crossed the threshold into my home, and saw my daughter, my breath caught in my throat and my heart, I'm quite sure, stopped beating. Would she now pull a gun? Would she steal my child? Was this all a ploy just to get in our house and rob us?
But no, she gasped as she saw Bryony in her footie pajamas, playing with Thomas the Tank Engine. She took delight in the cats with their funny little names--she even recognized the Greg House reference from the tv show--as they pawed and clawed their way up her legs. And she kept apologizing for interrupting our evening. My heart poured out to her. While Adam was putting on his socks and shoes to go out to the car, she guessed how old Bryony was. "Two and a half?" she asked. "Yes!" I replied, surprised. Most people guess older because of Bryony's height. "I've got eleven," she mumbled back to me. "You have an eleven-year old?" I asked her. "No," she said, looking up at me. "I have eleven kids." Adam and I both caught our breaths at the same time. I looked more closely at this thin woman, the lines on her face a history of the hard life she'd been dealt. She apologized again for knocking on our door. I shook my head and said, "It's okay. You chose the right house."
Adam pulled the car out and she thanked me once again as she left the house to go meet him outside. I closed the door and thought again that this could be an elaborate setup. Not that it happens often, but from time to time you hear about these hoaxes where someone fakes distress to coax an unwitting person to let him/her into the house. Now Adam had this woman in our car, driving to who-knows-where. I could already see the headlines: "Two-time Iraq War Veteran Killed While Being Good Samaritan." I put Bryony to bed and hoped against hope Adam would come back all right.
Fifteen minutes later my cell phone rang. It was Adam. I expected to hear the shaky, fading voice of my husband as he lay in a ditch somewhere, dying of stab wounds. Instead, his voice was normal, if not a bit exasperated. He said they had arrived at the intersection near her home, and that 911 had been called to report whatever incident had caused her to be stranded on our street. "I'll be home soon, but don't wait up," he informed me. I was just glad the police would soon be involved.
Adam came home about 30 minutes later. His earlier compassion seemed to have morphed into mild annoyance. When I asked him what had happened to this woman, he shrugged. "A woman who chooses to be with one shiftless man after another. Evidently her current boyfriend and his buddy were driving around, and the boyfriend started beating on her. Hit her over the back, left a contusion on her face. They left her stranded out here." He shook his head, frustrated. I gave him a long, hard hug.
I was happy he was safely home. I was happy he was the kind of man to help out a stranger in need. I was happy he wasn't the kind of man who hits. Mostly, I was happy I can call him my husband.
And while I'll probably always carry a seed of paranoia (or healthy suspicion) with me, I'm hoping that this situation is the first step on my path to letting go of (at least, some of) my fear. I want to help others, and I don't want the walls of doubt and fear that I've created keep me from doing that. And I certainly don't want my current mindset to be the model I pass down to Bryony. And so, this woman, this event...has changed me. Hopefully, for the better.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Friends
I am so incredibly lucky. Lucky isn't even the half of it. I'm beyond fortunate. I have such great friends. Friends from middle school, high school, college, jobs, graduate school, volunteer activities, mama groups...my life is full.
I have more friends--good friends--than I'm able to properly keep in touch with. And there lies my stress. I have always prided myself on the fact that I am really good about keeping in touch with people. My oldest friend from elementary school (which I attended in Ohio, until my family moved to Virginia before sixth grade) and I wrote real, paper-and-envelope!! letters for years, and continue to keep in touch via Facebook. I'm still in touch with three of the foreign exchange students who visited my high school when I was attending.
But as time goes on and I get busier (and acquire more friends?) I find that it has become more and more difficult to maintain the close connection with all of them that I once managed so effortlessly. There are some close friends who I used to see at least once a week who I now have gone months without talking to. How did I get to this place??
I guess I'm writing this post to acknowledge to myself that I am no longer a superwoman of correspondence, and to try to explain to any neglected friends how sorry I am.
You might notice I didn't get around to Christmas cards this past year, either. I know, I know--brotherhood and good will to all (wo)men. Trust me, I wished it all your way. I just didn't manage to put it to paper. I'll do better this year (with Christmas cards and correspondence, in general)...promise.
I have more friends--good friends--than I'm able to properly keep in touch with. And there lies my stress. I have always prided myself on the fact that I am really good about keeping in touch with people. My oldest friend from elementary school (which I attended in Ohio, until my family moved to Virginia before sixth grade) and I wrote real, paper-and-envelope!! letters for years, and continue to keep in touch via Facebook. I'm still in touch with three of the foreign exchange students who visited my high school when I was attending.
But as time goes on and I get busier (and acquire more friends?) I find that it has become more and more difficult to maintain the close connection with all of them that I once managed so effortlessly. There are some close friends who I used to see at least once a week who I now have gone months without talking to. How did I get to this place??
I guess I'm writing this post to acknowledge to myself that I am no longer a superwoman of correspondence, and to try to explain to any neglected friends how sorry I am.
You might notice I didn't get around to Christmas cards this past year, either. I know, I know--brotherhood and good will to all (wo)men. Trust me, I wished it all your way. I just didn't manage to put it to paper. I'll do better this year (with Christmas cards and correspondence, in general)...promise.
Me Time
Since the very beginning of our courtship, Adam has made it clear that he needs to have a certain amount of time to himself every day. Whereas I'm the type of person who, upon getting home from work, wants to collapse onto the couch into his arms with a giant snuggle, Adam wants to seclude himself in a room with the laptop or a book for a good hour or so. It used to hurt my feelings, because I couldn't understand not wanting to be with the person you haven't seen all day. And then, I just started to realize that we're all built differently with different needs, and I stopped taking it personally. In fact, I tried to use the "time off" to do my own things, too--catch up on phone calls (mostly), read a few pages of a new book, work on a crossword puzzle or watch some tv.
Now that Adam's back in town and we've sunk into a bit of a routine, I find myself falling back into the same patterns of yesteryear...coming home from work and just wanting to be with him--sitting on his lap while we talk about our days, sneak in hugs, cuddle on the couch. And, I'm finding that Adam has not changed much either. He still needs his "Me Time" before being ready to give some of himself over to me (although he's a great dad and pretty much always has time for Bryony). I'm once again trying not to take it personally.
Particularly, when I see that our daughter seems to have inherited her dad's need for "Me Time." Just the other day, Bryony insisted on closing her bedroom door on us as she read her books. Uncomfortable with the idea of leaving her unattended in her room, I opened the door to find her sitting square in the middle of the room, surrounded by a pile of books as she read one aloud. She looked up at me disdainfully. "No, Mama! No door open!"
I'm trying not to take it personally.
Now that Adam's back in town and we've sunk into a bit of a routine, I find myself falling back into the same patterns of yesteryear...coming home from work and just wanting to be with him--sitting on his lap while we talk about our days, sneak in hugs, cuddle on the couch. And, I'm finding that Adam has not changed much either. He still needs his "Me Time" before being ready to give some of himself over to me (although he's a great dad and pretty much always has time for Bryony). I'm once again trying not to take it personally.
Particularly, when I see that our daughter seems to have inherited her dad's need for "Me Time." Just the other day, Bryony insisted on closing her bedroom door on us as she read her books. Uncomfortable with the idea of leaving her unattended in her room, I opened the door to find her sitting square in the middle of the room, surrounded by a pile of books as she read one aloud. She looked up at me disdainfully. "No, Mama! No door open!"
I'm trying not to take it personally.
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