eMail to the Front

by Alyssa Day

  To: Judd

  From: Alesia

  Subject: Still OK, stop worrying!

  I got your phone message. Stop worrying! So I'm alone with a baby and a two-year-old. I'm a tough trial lawyer, how hard can staying at home with two kids be? [NOTE TO SELF: The stupidest thing I've ever said in my entire life.] I don't even have to wear pantyhose!!

  I had the going-away party for the Officers' Spouses Club here at the house today. It was great to meet everyone. I don't remember many names, of course, but everyone was so friendly. Your CO's wife, Carrie, and the XO's wife, Robin, were the last ones to leave, so I got a chance to talk with them a little. They're terrific! Connor had so much fun with all the kids. He ran up and down our hill so much today that, when he tried to stand up after dinner, he fell back down, looked at me with a comical expression of surprise, and said, "Mommy, my legs are broked!"

  We miss you a lot and, I have to admit, after the conversations I took part in and overheard today, I'm a little worried. The spouses who have been through many deployments were pretty grim. Many of them were already in tears (especially the ones whose husbands just left in the airlift today). Maybe this is going to be worse than I thought.

  But I know we'll be fine. So take care of yourself and write me lots of e-mails and tell me all about the heat and the people and the wonderful sights you're seeing!! You know I wish I could be going along for the adventure. (I know; I'll go there and YOU study for the Washington bar exam.)

  p.s. Try not to get emotionally attached to any camels.

  No matter how courageous, strong, and self-sufficient you are — and military spouses are among the bravest people I have ever known — weeks or months of being a single parent, while envisioning your spouse acting as a human missile target, is a pretty tough job. I, known more for self-confidence than intelligence, was sure I'd be just fine.

  Boy, did I have a lot to learn.

  When we moved to Whidbey Island, I learned one of the scariest words in the English language: deployment.

  Just whisper the word in any gathering of military spouses, and a shudder of horror will race through the room. Storm clouds will gather on foreheads. People will tell horror stories in hushed voices: "Then Hurricane Andrew hit, and we had to evacuate. I was in the hospital having my appendix out, and had to drag the baby, the boys, and the dog up to Georgia with the IV pole still strapped to my arm and the doctor tied down to the luggage rack. By myself."

  "He was due back on October 6, which would have been six months on the dot, but the planes broke down in the squadron replacing him, so he was stuck in Turkey for another nineteen days."

  "I once went twenty-five days, seven hours, and thirty-three minutes without hearing one word."

  Trust me, none of this is exaggeration. (OK, maybe the appendix thing. Sort of.)

  Enduring freedom and enduring love. The Navy ship sails over the horizon, or the Air Force plane flies off into the sunset. CNN broadcasts these patriotic images into homes across America, showing the spouses of servicemen and women waving flags and smiling bravely, as their loved ones leave for up to half a year of separation. Such courage, such fortitude, such calm and stoic acceptance of the sacrifices they must endure.

  Then the cameras stop rolling.

  The real story is more like this: Four hours of waiting in the hangar or on the dock has pushed you three hours past the two-year-old's naptime. The cookies and punch that someone with no kids so thoughtfully provided has the five-year-old hopped-up on a sugar high that will last until a week from Tuesday. The baby has a look on her face that says the jet that just took off with Daddy inside wasn't the only thing on the runway filled with gas. The cell phone shows you missed three calls—two from your secretary and one from your boss. You finally get everyone strapped in the various car seats, but realize the car is out of gas. You pass a McDonald's on the way to the gas station, and everyone in the car sets up a simultaneous howling. You feel like joining them and think: "Only 183 days to go," as you start laughing like a crazy person. Welcome to the world of the military spouse.

  3

  The Stay-at-Home Military Spouse

  June

  To: Judd

  From: Alesia

  Subject: I found out how hard it can be.

  I can't believe I ever thought being a stay-at-home Mom was easy. My worst day in the middle of trial prep was easier than this! I never even get a coffee break. No leisurely lunches with friends. I don't even get to go to the bathroom by myself!

  My day today basically sucked. I had to rush around getting the kids ready, so we could get Connor to preschool on time. This was picture day, so the teacher wanted all the parents to come in. That took an hour, and the place was a zoo with all the parents, so by then Lauren was very tired and whiny. Connor said he wanted to leave, but they had some program he was rehearsing for, so he decided to stay at school while we ran to the grocery. Of course, Lauren fell asleep in the car and woke up when we got to the store, so instead of her usual hour and a half nap, she had twenty minutes in the car. You can imagine how cheerful she was in the grocery store. Sigh.

  Then it was already time to pick up Connor. When I walked in, the teacher said, "Didn't you get our message? Connor vomited all over the place five minutes after you left." They thought he just ate his snack too fast and choked a little, because he was fine five minutes later. We took our bag of vomit clothes and got back in the car.

  In a stroke of brilliant planning and foresight, I had previously scheduled a portrait session at Sears for this very afternoon! So I had to drive clear over to Burlington and try to get two tired, cranky children to smile. Connor wouldn't do it. He is very clingy these days and keeps saying "I miss my Daddy." I don't know what to tell him. I miss you, too.

  I think I might be losing my mind.

  In more news of my "how hard can it be" day, I finally got the kids home, fed, and to bed. Then I had to clean up the dinner dishes, figure out whether or not I had missed my amoxycillin dose (I took it again, what the heck), start the dishwasher, clean up the mud Connor tracked in, clean up the bathroom from bath time, take out the garbage and decide what to do since we're out of trash bags, take the dog out on the leash because he keeps trying to run away (so fun, when it's 40 degrees outside), change the sheets on my bed from where Lauren peed through her diaper, start a load of laundry, and make a list of things to do tomorrow.

  In my spare time.

  I got your e-mail. If you ask me whether I got the lawn mower attachments one more time, I swear I will throw the thing off Deception Pass Bridge and buy a goat. I promise I will get to the lawn mower store when I get a minute!!

  OK, it's only midnight. I think I'll finally go take my morning shower.

  To: Alesia

  From: Judd

  Subject: I will never say LAWN MOWER again.

  I'm sorry you are having a tough time. I hope you are feeling better. We have been flying every day, all day long, so I haven't had a chance to check e-mail. I hope Connor is just going through a phase, and isn't too stressed out from my leaving. I have been sending sleepy vibes to Lauren to make her sleep through at least part of the night for you.

  I am very proud of you for organizing and hosting the OSC's squadron going-away party. I know you feel like you're in the Twilight Zone sometimes, but you're doing great! It is still pretty hot here (big surprise!), especially after having to wait out in the sun for the bus. It has gotten windy, so you collect dust and grit on your clothes and in your eyes and mouth. We flew around the Arabian Gulf all night looking at stuff. It was pretty calm and boring, which is a good thing. I'm going to get some sleep before we fly again tonight. Judd-the-Dusty

  To: Judd

  From: Alesia

  Subject: I've lost my identity.

  It's the weirdest sensation, but I feel like my identity has disappeared. I have become The Invisible Woman.

  To shop at the commissary, I have to show my "dependent" ID card. (I haven't been "dependent"
on anyone since I was a child.) To take the kids to the doctor, I have to give your name and your Social Security number. Even the veterinarian's receptionist I called today for P.J.'s shots asked—and keep in mind that this was the office of a civilian woman vet—"What is your husband's name?"

  I said, "What?"

  "We set up all the files under the husband's name."

  You can imagine how well I took that. I said, "What if I don't .have a husband? Do I have to go somewhere ELSE for my dog's care??"

  I used a different vet.

  But, it's insidious. At social gatherings, the first thing you usually do when you meet someone new is ask "What do you do?" Not anymore. Now the first thing anybody asks me is, "What does your husband do?" Or, what squadron are you in?

  To understand how odd this feels to me, switch it around. Imagine if the first things anybody asked you were, "What does your wife do? What law firm are you in?"

  Today, at the mall, I thought I had a reprieve from all this anonymity. Connor started chatting with a guy when we were in line for ice cream, and the guy asked him, "What does your Mommy do?"

  Finally! Someone cares what I do! OK, it was a total stranger trying to be nice to a talkative kid, but I'll take what I can get. I waited breathlessly for Connor to say: "This is my Mommy, she takes care of me and baby sister." Or: "Mommy's a lawyer, she helps people." Two pretty important jobs, right?

  Connor took a deep breath, looked at me, then up at the man, and said proudly: "Mommy breaks things, and Daddy fixes them."

  4

  It’s Tuesday, What Time Is It in Bahrain

  June

  To: Alesia

  From: Judd

  Subject: Still hot here

  We flew all last night, training another crew. We got to see both a sunset and a sunrise. Breakfast is pretty interesting here; raw eggs, dates, and olives. It takes a little getting used to. Thanks again for the Father's Day package and pictures. I was the envy of everyone, since mine actually came on time! I can't believe how big Lauren is getting!

  I am absolutely on the best crew I could have gotten. Everyone works great together and enjoys hanging out when we aren't flying, too.

  The computer keeps kicking me offline, so I will go stand in line to try to call you in a little bit. I think it's around bedtime for you, so I hope you're still up.

  To: Judd

  From: Alesia

  Subject: It's OK that you called and woke me up.

  I can't get the time difference straight, either. Just when I get it figured out, we hit daylight savings time, or you move to a different country. (That sounds weird—It's Wednesday, what country is Judd in?) Connor can find Madagascar and Bahrain on a map now, but has no idea where Ohio is.

  To: Alesia

  From: Judd

  Subject: Leaving again

  The flight went very well and the Admiral seemed happy with us (a happy Admiral is always a good thing). Unfortunately, as soon as we stepped off the aircraft, we were told that we had to pack up and go to "a different country," as you put it, tomorrow morning. Nobody is all that thrilled, but we go where they need us. I hear there's not much e-mail or phone access there, so I'll be in touch when I can. I'll try to call you tomorrow morning (tonight for you, I think). I have to go pack and find something to eat. Talk to you soon!

  To: Judd

  From: Alesia

  Subject: Sorry I missed your call.

  I guess I'll hear from you when I hear from you. It's so upsetting when I miss your call one of the few times you get to a phone, but I've found myself hibernating in the house hoping the phone will ring (which is not a good thing, unlike a happy Admiral), and cabin fever is driving us all nuts. So I'll just e-mail and pretend you're going to read it sometime soon. We miss you so much, and I can't believe we won't see you until almost Christmas. It occurred to me today that six months is actually HALF A YEAR. Somehow, that sounds much worse.

  To: Alesia

  From: Judd

  Subject: We're back!

  And I can finally get your e-mails. Don't think of it as half a year; that sounds like forever. Just think of it as only about 22 more weeks. I'm going to get a phone card and call as soon as I figure out what time it is in Seattle. No more waking you up in the middle of the night!

  To: Judd

  From: Alesia

  Subject: You have to admit, it IS pretty funny!

  The first nap I've taken with the kids in three weeks . . . RING!!!! It's like washing my car to make it rain. Whenever I want you to call, I'm going to fall asleep! We miss you, too, and the kids are looking forward to the stuffed camels.

  5

  The Dreaded Paper Chain

  June

  To: Judd

  From: Alesia

  Subject: I have construction paper taped to my butt.

  I had a bright idea to make a paper chain with one link representing every day you were gone. That way, Connor could tear off a link every day, and it would be a tangible symbol for him of the fact you are coming back.

  Let me point out that a just-turned three-year-old has the attention span of a gnat. He lasted all of 17 links and was done. Mommy got to stay up till midnight, cutting and gluing paper links together. Of course, I put in about 20 extra, since we don't know the exact date you'll be back, and I don't want to run out. Do you know what half a year looks like in paper-chain land???? I have the darn thing strung up all around the room, like some kind of giant purple and green fungus. At about 100 links or so, I gave up on beauty and got out the stapler. Things moved along a little quicker then!

  To: Alesia

  From: Judd

  Subject: Paper chains & other stuff

  The paper chain sounds like a great idea! Take a picture so I can see it. (Responding to 5 e-mails here; been flying all the time.) Yes, you can plug the piano into the wall with the adapter. You need to check the oil in the mower every time you use it. There are lines on the dipstick to tell you how much is left. If you need to add oil, use 5W-30 motor oil, or get lawn mower oil at the hardware store. Don't add the whole thing, just add enough to bring it up to the proper level.

  I'm sorry Connor is so sad. I miss him too. I sent a postcard just for him and hope it arrives soon. I miss you all VERY VERY much, and it makes me grumpy to be away.

  The weather here is getting hotter! The air-conditioning shuts off around 2 a.m., so I wake up by 2:30 when the room temperature reaches 97 degrees. The cabdriver said, "You think it's hot now, wait till August. You'll wish you were dead."

  It wasn't really encouraging.

  I hope you are all getting some rest today. I can't wait to hear Lauren practicing her new laugh!

  To: Judd

  From: Alesia

  Subject: What is it with your kids and artificial nipples?

  Lauren is just like Connor. I can't get her to take a bottle for anything. I went to the store and bought one of every kind of different bottle and nipple they had, thinking maybe she would have some sort of preference (the bottle manufacturers are all trying to replicate Mommy now, very forward-thinking, but your daughter is Not Fooled).

  If I could get her to take a bottle, I could have a baby-sitter for a few hours once in a while and take a Mommy Mental Health break and see a movie or just sit in the park and read a book. Everyone needs at least an hour or two a week to herself.

  Even Mommies.

  Hugs, Alesia the human milk truck

  To: Alesia

  From: Judd

  Subject: Please don't send me e-mail with the word nipple in the subject line.

  Remember, I usually have to use a computer in a room filled with lots of guys. I may never live this down.

  When I get home, you can take days and days of mental health breaks and see all the movies and read all the books you want. I promise.

  Kids who don't yet understand the difference between "yesterday" and "last Thursday" are not going to comprehend what six months means. The first deployment lasted more than half of La
uren’s life, and almost a quarter of Connors, to put it in perspective. We tried to do things that made the time manageable, like the paper chain. We also crossed days off on the calendar, and sent Daddy a box of presents every week. But, in a long deployment, these tactics can almost be counterproductive. The sheer size of the paper chain overwhelmed and depressed us. It wasn't until we made it through fifty or sixty links that we felt as if we might actually see Judd again some day.

  Young children don't understand at all. They just know they miss Daddy and they want him to come home and wrestle, read books, and go to the park. As hard as I tried, I could never get the "voices" right when I read the bedtime books (Daddy does all the characters). I didn't know what the "broccoli song" was. We tried to explain in the days leading up to deployment, and over and over again while Judd was gone, but they were just too young. All Connor and, later, Lauren knew was that they were hurting and angry and sad. When I had to face the fact that I couldn't fix it — I couldn't make them not miss Daddy — it was the hardest lesson I've ever had to learn as a parent.

  My friends with older children say the reactions are different, but the emotions are the same. The kids understand intellectually that Mommy or Daddy has to be gone, and why, and for how long. But none of that understanding makes up for the missed championship soccer game or piano recital. Or even for ordinary family dinners and homework.

  So military families try to love their kids a little more. And cherish them a bit more. And spend more time together, when we're not on different hemispheres. We try to explain and console, fix the boo-boos, and cuddle the sadness away.