I really have a love-hate relationship with moving.  As exciting as it is to start a new chapter, it's also gut-wrenching to close one.  As much fun as looking forward to a new house is, leaving your current one is so sad.  Long days and late nights prepping for a move, watching the movers pack your stuff while your heart is in your throat, and arguing with them about how they are poorly packing your stuff all leads (God-willing) to a sense of victory on the other end when you are settling into your new home and finally putting the stuff away.

This is my first move as an Army wife, since we were reassigned to Fort Hood after Richard's previous assignment.  While I am having some deja vu about moving as a child, doing this as the mom/wife is SO much harder than doing this as a child.  Kids look to Mom and Dad as their comfort and stability.  So, while moving is still sad, they are taking with them their security.  Not so much with the grown ups.  My home is my comfort.  And this week, the packers tore that apart.  As I stood in the kitchen watching them pack my china, plates, cookware and watched them box up the Nursery, I kept telling myself to breathe.  That it would all make it in one piece.  That it was just stuff.  It didn't work.  But, it was worth a shot.

The next day, as they suddenly went from slow-as-molasses to speedy-gonzales (because they double-booked themselves for the week, of course), I watched in horror as they started shoving and pushing items in boxes that didn't fit.  Trying to convince them of this was next to impossible, and I truly felt a stroke coming on.  My cranium was preparing to launch.  The baby swing was being crushed, a giant concrete St. Francis was shoved down on top of collectible doll items.  I was trying to communicate with my husband via eye signals, which weren't going through because of poor signal strength.  By the time they left, I truly thought the day couldn't get more stressful.  I was wrong.


For several years, I had a plunger lying in the back most recess of my trunk.  I had put it there when I had moved out of my apartment the week of my wedding.  Since I could not reach it without crawling into the trunk and thereby damaging my pride, there is sat.  People would mock me.  Oh, yes.  But, my constant response was, "You never know when you might need a plunger."  I had no idea how right I would be.  Two weeks ago, after more teasing from my husband, I finally waited until our street was devoid of people and crawled in after my plunger. 

After the umpteenth argument with the movers about the aforementioned box, one of them asked if they could use our bathroom.  I had no problem with this.  She returned and they continued packing and we continued requesting boxes get repacked.  The box with the doll desk was never repacked. 

After they left that night, we realized that the mover had clogged the toilet.  We inspected boxes in the garage to see which one they could possibly have packed the plunger in.  There was no way to tell with their contents descriptions; they had marked Christmas Decorations "Totes and clothes."  Makes sense.  I was relieved immediately when I had a sudden thought: my plunger!  I turned to get the car keys...and then remembered.  It, too, was in a box somewhere.  Oh, if only everyone had listened.  So, out went the husband to buy a plunger...which we realized after he returned home and started plunging, was broken.  Naturally. 

The next morning, my parents brought their plunger...and to no avail, we plunged again.  By now, there was disgusting water all over the bathroom floor.  It was tracked into the hallway, and had successfully shut down total use of that bathroom.  Until my toddler somehow got in there, slipped and fell into the water.  Yes.  Ew. 

Finally the moving company sent out a plumber.  He fixed it within ten minutes.  And for five hours that day, I was mopping up foul water off my floor.  When I thought I was done, I stood up only to realize that it had seeped underneath the tiles.  I was so angry, and again felt a stroke coming on. After a few hours with a fan, the water seems to have dried. 

As we moved through this week of chaos, I survived.  The movers and packers, our life loaded onto a truck, arguments about boxes, a plumber.  Two HARD days of cleaning.  But, I survived.  My first move-out as an Army Wife is done.  We even have a funny story.  And, on a positive note, the pride that I lost climbing into the trunk of my Taurus to retrieve a plunger was restored when I was able to look at my husband and say, "See?  I told you: You never know when you are going to need a plunger."  If only more people appreciated my genius. 

It's unreal to me. 

I look around this house, seeing everything in its place...and a few things not in their places.  Objects clearly illustrating people live here, have used those items in the recent past.  A stapler askew on the desk.  The chairs half pushed back into the table.  Dishes drying in the sink.  To try and envision this house any other way is difficult.  To view it empty, packed up, is unreal. 

But, it's going to happen.  In three short weeks, packers will descend upon my home and un-home it.  The memories from my childhood of houses stripped of their personality will come flooding back as I hear the familiar sounds of tape being ripped off rolls and the smell of cardboard and paint fills my little house.  They  will strip the identity from it.  Yet, memories will still pour forth from the walls; memories only I can see. 

Like driving up to his home for the first time.  I remember thinking it was so small and quaint.  Inviting.  I walked in, still with that new nervousness when around him.  I complimented him on how well appointed his home was.  "Thanks.  My mom helped me."  Was his innocent and sweet response.  Weeks later, he gave me my first kiss in this living room.  We planned our wedding here, during evenings spent over binders, books, and brochures.  He carried me over the threshold of this home the night of our Wedding, and we never looked back.  We've brought two children home here, suffered a great loss, and survived a deployment.  In this house.  There are sweet little memories, like watching our daughters learn to crawl or running around the backyard on summer evenings, decorating our Christmas Tree.  And funny anecdotes, like the time I spent the night here because I was locked out of my parents' house while they were out of town.  It was our third date.  I slept in the guest room, with the door locked...just in case. 

Aspects of this home that seem standard to some, hold great memories for us.  The fireplace.  Our favorite thing has been a roaring fire in the winter, curled up on the couch just relaxing.  The first fire I built while he was deployed was both a great victory and a stinging reminder of his absence.  The room in the back of the house, with the chair rail, it started off as a weight room for a bachelor; it was transformed into a quiet sanctuary for our honeymoon baby.  Dancing in the living room to music with my girls, cooking meals for my little family in the kitchen, walking around the house wondering if it was "time" while counting contractions.  It's all here.  The memories.  The life.  And I must leave it all behind.

I have lived this way my whole life.  I know nothing else.  That is a great comfort at times.  I consider myself greatly experienced when it comes to military life, especially after being "in it" for 28 years.  Despite that, the pain is not lessened; the sense of loss no less keen in these situations.  Packing up.  Moving on.  Again.  And again.  Leaving houses that have become homes and then painfully became houses again.  Good-byes to friends you've made, especially those you've laughed and cried with.  Turning from family and walking away.  Leaving behind parents, sisters.  It hurts.

Yes, a great chapter is before us.  Full of exciting new adventures.  Yes, we will make a new home, make new friends.  Have babies in different homes.  There is much good awaiting us, too.

But those adventures do not replace the old ones.  The new friends will not take the place of those we leave behind.  No house will ever come close to the home that this place has been.

My tiny home.  My little living room that I can walk across in a few short steps.  The one that has been covered with baby toys, walkers, play pens.  That precious room that has housed my sleeping newborns.  The kitchen that has been danced in, cooked in.  My home, that has been slept in, celebrated in, laughed in, cried in.  Lived in.

In a few short weeks, I will watch them pack up my little home.  I will clean it one last time, paint it one last time.  I will look around one last time.  Walk the rooms.  Stop.  Remember one last time.  Then, I will walk out.  Shut the door.  One last time.  And move on.  To the next adventure.   

I was born into this Army life.  Raised in it.  After a few years separated from it (because I turned 23, and therefore lost all my benefits), I married right back into it. I am thankful for the experience I can use, the knowledge I have dealing with most aspects of it, and so grateful for the example of my mother and father. 

We were driving somewhere, all eight of us Smiths in the huge van my parents drove.  I couldn't have been terribly old, maybe in Junior high.  My father was stationed at Fort Hood, and was working at Darnall.  As we drove past the post, I saw the 1st Cavalry sign.  Even then, it had made a large impression on me, though much more abstract at that young age. I could never have known that my future would be intimately and deeply touched by that unit. 

We were fiercely proud of my father, and were obviously prone to sucking up.  One of us children saw the infantry sign, and a comment:

"Ha.  Infantry.  Not as good as Medical Service Corps." 

My father pulled the van over and turned in his seat.  He was very firm.

"I know you are proud of me, and that's fine.  But let me tell each of you right now, those men that serve as Infantry Soldiers work harder, sacrifice more, and are put in far more dangerous circumstances than I will ever be.  No matter what, you owe them respect and gratitude."

That moment stuck with me.  My father has always been so humble, but his earnestness in the van that day never left my memory.

Thirteen years later, my husband and Soldier received orders that he was to serve with the 1st Cavalry Division.  And that he was deploying to Iraq. That horse, that insignia, that yellow and black has become such a source of pride and gratitude and hard work for me.  I saw him go off to training three times; he was in and out of the house constantly for three months. 

Then he left for a year.  And I was scared to death. 

When we first started with the Unit, those colors struck the fear of God in me.  I knew he would be deploying in a matter of a very few months.  With them.  Then, they become a symbol of home, of comfort.  Soon, it bespoke Pride.  Sacrifice.  Survival. 

Family.  Comfort.  Survival.

Now, I have jewelery that I cherish in black and gold.  A pin from the spouses' coffees.  A diaper bag displaying the patch.  They all have the black and gold.  That horse.  The women that I befriended in the Brigade were a comfort when I got the most horrible text message from my husband, a source of laughter when no one else understood, and a source of constant strength and inspiration as I learned to walk in far deeper foot prints of Army Wives who had repeatedly sacrificed everything to keep a family together and a nation at peace.  These women taught me so much.  How to keep a joyful face when it felt as though the world is falling in around you.  How to keep the children from worrying.  They showed me how to Hold Down the Homefront through advice and example.  They let me know it was okay to cry, to let the tears flow, every now and then. 

I don't think these women can know how much I appreciated their example as I forged my way through my first deployment.  How important their presence were in my life.  How, each time I met up with them, I was hanging onto every word for strength, comfort, and the God-given comradery. 

Our Farewell is tonight.  And next month, we leave this unit behind.  The black and gold, the horse, the incredible Soldiers that served along and protected my husband.  That sent him home.  Alive.  The women, who in my weakest moments, infused me with Army strength to keep going.  Who, in my most joyful moments, gave me increased happiness and kept me marching. 

As we leave the Cav, I leave a part of my self.  My blood. Sweat. Tears. Sacrifice.  I will forever feel a part of that Insignia, a part of their story.  Because that's what makes up that unit, that patch: the blood, sweat, and tears of all the Soldiers and their spouses who give so much, sacrifice so much, to keep this country free.  Those who fight on the front lines, drive vehicles into dangerous areas, those who come home in pieces and those who come home in boxes.  The wives, who are constantly vigilant, constantly praying, constantly fighting to keep it together at home.  Waiting.  Praying.  Sweating, bleeding, and sometimes crying.

My gratitude will ever be with the 1st Cavalry Division, for bringing my husband home.  For teaching me so much.  For being the family, the anchor, that always understood.  I will miss this unit, miss the women I waited along side.  My pride for the Army grew tenfold since September of 2010.  My pride for the 1st Cavalry left its abstractness, and became concrete.  I used to see the patch and wonder at their story.  Now, I'm part of their story. 

Forever part of the 1st Team. 

I should have known.  I can't even look back on the pictures I took during that time.  So much time went by.  She was so tiny at the beginning and so big at the end.  It hurts my heart.  So, when I sat down to re-read journal entries from before and during the deployment, I should have known I would be boarding a roller coaster.  Should have known I'd be riding it when I read through the pages.  Pages and pages.  Of change. 

In me. 

I started out a timid, scared woman.  Oh, I played a good game--made myself look confident, like I didn't care what other people thought.  But, I cared deeply.  Too deeply sometimes.  I was incapable of speaking up for myself, for my family.  I often couldn't state my opinions or share my thoughts.  I didn't want to rock the boat.  I waffled with every decision I had to make, regardless of how inconsequential it might have been.  I was scared to death of change, of being without him.  That was before.

The year--it changed me.

Now, I am confident.  I am strong, resilient.  At times, I am even defiant.  I still care what other people think, but I care even more about what I think.  My family, my husband, my children are at the center of every thought, decision, choice I make. I will share my opinions, because they are worth hearing, worth having.  And I really don't mind rocking the boat--sometimes, it's fun to do it.  Like I said, I can be a little defiant.  The decisions I make are firm, strong, and carefully thought out.  I am not scared of change anymore.  Just very weary of it.

I hardly know that girl who was here before my Soldier deployed.  There is just a shell of her left.  I still have a little of that child-like joy, though it has been dampened.a bit. Jaded, maybe.  I still find joy in the little things, but with that comes a thread of melancholy.  Because I know it won't last.  That piece of joy, as with everything, will end.  I still am proud of my husband, but that is now a fierce pride.  It comes with a sense of constant awareness, waiting and preparing to strike anyone who will criticize or attack him.  And they do, occasionally.

So much positive came out of this adventure that is still concluding.  But, I see some aspects of my character I must also temper.  That quick defiance.  Looking at the negative in life with an attitude of resilience and disregard is one thing.  But when that attitude starts targeting loved ones, especially my Soldier, I know I must temper it.  Quickly.  That pride that feeds the fear that he will just leave again, that whispers in your mind not to trust him completely to save yourself from pain at the next good-bye.  Those are terrible things.  Natural reactions, possibly.  But so awful.  

We are still adjusting.  Still transitioning.  This deployment didn't last just a year.  So many people think life just clicks back into place once your Soldier is home.  It does not.  There is work to be done.  Always work to be done.  Learning to be a family again, learning to trust and to be open.  So painful to admit, but a good dose of humility will do me some good.

As always, the deployment will not win.  That's where I will direct my defiance, my pride.  Because my children, my family, my Soldier are worth fighting for.  Eventually, we will be "normal" again.  Having him home, leaning on him, opening up to him won't be hard.  It will be worth it.

And then, he'll probably be getting ready to leave again.  Charlie Mike.  

My insides turn to rocks when I see them.  One here, two there...appearing all over.  Tiny ones, large ones.  As small as the tip of a pen, as large as a quarter.  On her legs, her arms, her tummy.  Her back.  Everywhere.  I'll notice them at bath time.  And they suck my breath away.  I see them in the morning, while dressing her.  I know she doesn't bump herself in all those places.  I know they aren't normal.

Those bruises.

I see bruises on other children and have the same reaction.  But they only have two.  And they are a normal color.  And my breath returns. 


Only now, after fighting this battle for a year--this endless search for answers--am I finally getting doctors' attention.  The one who claimed a year ago they were "from the way she's held" finally admitted last week that he's deeply concerned.  Suddenly admitted he's changed his mind.  Send her to another specialist, he said.  These are not normal, he stressed.

Ya think? 

As more bruises appear in more places, as more symptoms surface and current ones increase, I get more scared.  That feeling in my gut, that voice whispering my deepest fear, surfaces.  Grows constant.  I can hardly drown it out lately. 

What is wrong with my baby? 

Now, we await more appointments with more specialists.  More time ticks by as I stare, count, finger the bruises.  As she points to them: "Bruises, Mommy.  One, two, four-nine-ten." 

I still fight this fight.  I still seek answers.  My silent war rages on.  I will not stop until these bruises subside or until someone is able to give me The Answer. 

Seems like one of those "When it rains, it pours" times in life.  When every time you turn around, someone's suffering a major loss, learning terrible news, or losing a long-fought battle.  If not me, someone else dear to me is affected. 

I spent eleven days in bed.  I couldn't get well.  And I couldn't function.  Taking care of the girls was impossible, and taking a shower was exhausting.  Watching my girls from the couch, hearing them play from my bedroom was killing me.  I needed to be well.   For them.  Several trips into the doctor, two rounds of antibiotics, and a ridiculous amount of vitamin C, and I'm finally on the mend.  Still trying to kick this over a month after getting sick is trying my patience...and teaching me patience.  We take our health for granted.

While I was lying in warm baths, popping handfuls of pills, and trying to rest with two little ones, someone else close to me was fighting her own battle.  As I laid there for nearly two weeks, I just kept thinking of her.  Praying for her.  While I was complaining and whining, she was strong and resilient as her life changed drastically.  I take my blessings for granted. 

He was amazing.  To call him one of my dearest friends would be doing him great injustice.  I started writing him letters when I was in elementary school.  He always wrote back.  Always.  Years flew by, and he heard about everything--my love for books and writing, my school days, college escapades, and more books.  My grandfather was such a loving man.  I knew that time is always short.  I made sure to call him, write him.  Visits were precious, and I drank up every second.  And then the call came.  He was gone.  And I miss him painfully.  I take my family for granted. 

She's praying so hard for her baby's life.  Every second, every kick, she's praying he'll grow.  And he's not.  He's likely not going to make it.  She's a little over halfway through her pregnancy.  For the second time, she's facing losing her unborn baby.  Having to bury a second child.  I am praying so hard.  Yet, he's still sick.  Not growing.  I truly don't understand.  I take my babies for granted. 

Her husband is in a dangerous place.  He's a few months shy of coming home from his deployment.  Things are heating up over there, and violence is growing.  She's fearful.  And so brave.  She's worried, yet continues to move forward.  Scared, but smiles for her children.  What if's cross her mind, I know.  I've been there.  She lives without her husband, praying it's temporary.  I take my husband for granted. 

All of this is weighing on my mind lately.  So heavily.  I feel for those struggling and fighting.  I miss my grandfather, and my heart aches in his absence.  I question why all of this is happening to such good people, and I can only turn to God hoping and trusting He has a greater plan.  Reminding myself that I can not see as much as him.   I can only see horizontally while He he sees from above--the greater picture.  In the midst of my attempts to trust in His infinite goodness, I remind myself not to lose sight of my blessings.  My health, my family, my children, and my husband.  God is so good to me. 

I pray for those aching.  Those who are struggling, fighting.  I pray for those living in silent fear.  Do not think I do not know you are hurting.  I do.  While I can't do much, I can pray.  And I continue to do so.  Constantly.  Intensely.  Faithfully. 

It's still so fresh in my mind.  The nights alone, the caring for babies by myself, being the sole responsible person for the homefront.  I'm still "standing down," which has proved so much harder than I had thought.  But, life was starting to assume that natural and relaxed feeling.  The joy I hadn't felt in a long time.  Life was starting to settle down.

"Do you want to know where we are going next?"

I was sitting at the stoplight, preparing to turn onto the highway for our trip to the grocery store when he called.  He had come home early.  I nixed the shopping trip and headed home.  I needed to hear it from him--not the telephone.

Huntsville.  Three to four years.

My stomach burned, my mind reeled.  We have to leave both of our families.  Elizabeth's grandparents and aunts and uncles.  We leave our parents, brothers, sisters.  I am leaving some of the closest and dearest friends I've had.  People who saw me and helped me through a deployment.  We have to leave the most incredible parish community I've known.  People who care about us.  And our house, our dear little house.  The one we spent evenings getting to know each other in when we were dating.  We planned a wedding here.  Brought two babies home here.  We've held each other in grief here, and celebrated joys, too.

We are leaving a life behind.  And it makes me sad.

But, we will make a new life there.  We will make new friends, build new memories.  Our new home will see more joy, receive new babies, gain it's own beauty.

Questions fly through my head.

Will there be a deployment?  When?  We don't know.  How will Elizabeth handle this? I don't know.  Where do I start with this move?  I don't know.

There was a time, I would lament in tears at the chaos that is our life.  I have vivid memories of crying, "Will things ever settle down?  Will they ever be normal?"

Ha.  Nope.  And you signed up for this, sister.  

In the last year and a half, I have learned so much.  Life is not normal, period.  But, it's especially chaotic in the military.  But, it is this chaos, this upheaval, that gives me a sense of purpose now.  I view it not as a defeat, but as a battle to be won.  There's one constancy in this life, and it's the perpetual change that strikes when life feels most "normal."

And so, dear reader, another adventure commences on the Stravitsch Homefront.  A new chapter.  A new life.  Stay with us, pray with us, as we begin our next journey. 

Charlie Mike, ya'll.