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.

I came out from our bedroom after putting the tiniest one to sleep.  I heard the crackling of a fire and came into the living room, seeing my Soldier and my battle buddy standing in front of the fire place.  Something strange was in there. 

"What is it?" I realized as soon as I asked--our Flag. 

"It was tattered." he said, watching diligently.

That flag waved outside our home everyday he was gone.  Only twice did I take it down, because of storms ripping through the area.  As soon as they passed, the flag went back up.  That flag represented so much to me.  I saw it everyday that I came and went from our house.  My daughter somehow learned to call it "Daddy's Flag."  I was sad--it was a very important symbol for me. 

It was tattered, though.  Threads hung from the hem that was falling out.  The strings were wrapped around the pole from the wind.  The colors were faded, and the material dirty.  It had fought hard and it was time to retire it. 

Maybe that's why that flag was so important to me.  That flag was new when he left--bright, clean, ready.  It stood tall in the hot summer sun, the bitter cold, the occasional rain.  Despite the circumstances, it never waivered.  And it survived.  The end of the deployment found it tattered and worn.  But, so much more beautiful than when he left.  It had scars.  It had stories.  It had pride. 

I wound my arm around my Soldier's waist. 

Yes, time to retire it.  Time for calm.  Time to hunker down and enjoy some peace.  Tattered.  But proud. 

I called the first one wrong.  Totally wrong.  I was scared to death, was calling the Nurse's Hotline at our Army Hospital.  She'd been crying--screaming and writhing for over an hour.  Refusing to get off the toilet.  Grabbing at her stomach. Calling for Mommy, desperately.  Hitting the wall in pain.  Slapping irrationally at anyone who came close, then calling them back.  She was in pain.  I knew.  I was prepared to take her into the hospital.  Something was wrong with my little girl. 

I handed her the scarf.  That plaid scarf she's carried around the entire time I was in the hospital having her little sister.  At that time, she wouldn't leave the house, go to sleep, or do anything without that blasted scarf.  As soon as things settled down, I hid it.  That night, while she was screaming, I handed it to her.  She took it, and within thirty seconds, she calmed down and climbed off the toilet. 

Yes, she was in pain.  But, it was no pain a doctor could have fixed. 

"Ma'am?  Can I confirm you called the Nurse's Hotline?  What symptoms is your daughter exhibiting?"

"It's fine."  I sheepishly replied. "I thought she was having digestion issues, but her Daddy just got back from Iraq and didn't want us going on a date tonight." 

Her responses were shocking to me.  She was so nonchalant. "Oh.  We get this all the time.  Have a nice evening, ma'am." Click. 

Really?  She's two.  They get this all the time? 

It's glorious having my husband--my Soldier--home.  I don't have to worry anymore.  I don't have to live for my computer to ring.  He's home--I can hug him whenever I want.  Talk to him whenever I want.  His name shows up on my phone when he calls.

But, I made a critical mistake.  I thought that, as soon as we held each other on that parade field, this deployment was over.  It's affect on my life--my family's life--would be over.  I fell for the newspaper images, the media's portrayal.  That the Soldier comes home and everyone lives happily ever after. 

But, we are human.  And life's events affect us.  The younger we are, the smaller the ability we have to communicate the chaos, the suffering that this life brings, the harder it is to cope.  We are still making sacrifices.  My daughter is still sacrificing.  She's still suffering.  She lives in horrible fear that Mommy or Daddy will leave--suddenly.  That Daddy will disappear.  She has fought going to bed, panicking and screaming in fear.  She has refused to get dressed because she does not want to leave the house--her comfort zone.  She's scared to take naps. 

She's been such a fighter--such a trooper in the last year.  But, she's experienced more than most compitent adults do in saying good-bye repeatedly to her father, to her source of security and love. And it has taken its toll. 

At first, I was angry with myself.  Why wasn't I just happy that he was home?  Why was I complaining?  I felt I had no right to feel the negative feelings--the worry, the fear, the anger.  But, it's not over.  He's home, but it's not over. 

We are readjusting.  Reintegrating. 

Oh, joy.

As tired as I am, as emotionally burnt out as I am, I will not lose.  Unfortunately, this time, the battle lies not within me, but within my daughter.  But, I stand firmly knowing that we will win this fight, too.  Don't mess with my family; don't mess with my innocent children.  I will give her all the love, the structure, the routine I can.  We are slowly seeing progress.  She will be okay.  It just kills me that she--so innocent and so young--must still suffer. 

I do this for him.  I committed to this for him.  But, why?  Why must it hurt the little children? 

At first, there were hundreds of days ahead.  Many weeks.  12 months.

All I could do initially was count the weeks we survived.  Celebrate each Sunday that we'd made it through another week.  Then, the weeks got easier.  The months glided by.  Calendars were filled and life was lived.  Easter.  Mother's Day.  R&R.  Road Trips.  A Birth.  We struggled through Crosses and reveled in the joy.  Through it all, one image remained constant in my mind: meeting him on that parade field. 

And now, it's practically here.  I unpacked that footlocker.   I am cleaning the house, buying groceries for everyone, putting together outfits, and waiting for that phone call.

Boots on the Ground.

Before long, I'll be standing on that parade field, throwing my arms around him.  I'll watch him pick up his two girls.  We'll take him home.  And we'll live together again.  As a family.  The constant worry of the doorbell ringing will be over.  The perpetual absence will be filled.  We won't live by the phone and computer anymore.

I've grown.  I'm not that same woman who panicked when we got order only four months shy of his brigade's departure.  Who wondered if she'd remember to take out the trash every week, how she would take care of a daughter alone, how she would live through each second of a year without her best friend.  But, when I had to stand in a children's cancer unit and demand answers for my daughter's health, it happened.  When I climbed into an empty bed each night, it happened.  When I got up each morning, determined to finish the day with a smile, it happened.  It happened when I celebrated Valentine's day, our Anniversary, our daughter's birthday without him.  When I felt so low halfway through the deployment that it brought me to my knees.  It happened each time I cared for our newborn daughter in the middle of the night alone.

I learned to live without him, by living for him.

But during those moments,  something else happened, too. 

People helped.

Pictures of his departure were met with comments of encouragement and affirmation.  A blog post about my daughter's health caused a firestorm of promises of prayers.  Friends purchased plane tickets.  To come see me.  My mother took my newborn daughter for two nights into the guest room so I could get some sleep before I started flying solo.  My father became Mr. Fix It.  My in-laws drove up on a regular basis to stay.  Wives from Church made us dinner, threw me a baby shower.  Many other acts of kindness occurred. 

And people prayed.

I can stand proudly on that parade field because I survived.  I can stand confidently because I allowed this year to improve me instead of destroy me.  I cared for my child, which became children. I held down the homefront.  Earned my title Military Wife.  Gained that strength only those in this life have.

But, I would be a sham if I took all the credit.

The truth is this.  I couldn't have survived this year without my friends, my family, the strangers.  They helped--cleaned fish tanks, baby sat, fixed panels on my car.  They built bookshelves in my den, reinstalled the disposal in the kitchen.  They sat with me in those oncology appointments.  Bought plane tickets.  They helped clean my house.  Left words of encouragements on post it notes around my house, on my Facebook wall, and on my voicemail.  A precious few answered the phone when I was so tired, so worn down, and listened to me cry and helped me stand back up.  And everyone prayed.

We military wives like to say we are "alone."  And in some sense, we are.  Our Soldiers are gone, which leaves a gaping hole in our lives few can comprehend.  We learn by heartache not to take them for granted.  We sleep alone, we wake alone, we live alone.

But we do not survive alone.

We survive because other military wives band around us, especially in our weakest moments.  We survive because a friend takes a prayer request and makes it go viral on the internet.  We survive because friends--true friends--don't forget about us, don't try to understand.  They just listen.  We survive because family steps in and does what our Soldier would have done.  Fix things, clean things.  We survive because we realize that our Soldier isn't the only one who loves us.  Loves me.

I have learned one thing this year:  I am never alone.  On the contrary: I am very, very loved.

For those of you who helped my family, helped me, this year: THANK YOU.  You know who you are. The acts of kindness, the words of encouragement, the prayers.  I am so moved by the love and support four people were shown this past year.  There is still a "United" in our States, there is still a love in our country--for good.  As I sprint across that parade field, I do not do it alone.  Rather, I will sense the love all of you showed--I will feel you standing behind me, cheering me on. 

Because I did not survive alone.  I did not win alone.  I did it with you--because of you.

We all have our individual survival methods.  Techniques we develop and fine-tune to make sure we survive this life.  Because it's hard.  While we military spouses develop them individually, we find that they are similar to many others', which sparks long conversations about why one technique works and another doesn't. 

I can't count months!  Even though it's a smaller number, somehow counting weeks makes it seem shorter. 

Me, too!  Months are too overwhelming.

Each day, I post a positive status on Facebook. My goal is to finish out this deployment having never posted a negative status.  Recently a dear friend of mine commented on this, saying she hoped that they were all true and the life had been going well for us.  I laughed inside.  Most of the time, the statuses are true--I am able to find a joy in the life I have built and live for my girls.  The laughs, the stolen kisses, the games, the snuggles all provide a joy I've never known.  It's a joy that is confident, defiant.  Because I am winning despite the great struggle.

But, sometimes, I post positive statuses in spite of my day.  When tantrums, spills, potty accidents, and fussiness fill my day. When I cannot get ahead with the housework because I am going crazy chasing after a toddler and shushing a newborn.  I step up to my computer, force myself to find something positive about my day, and I post it. And then I feel better.  Because I am winning.  I am still finding the joy, even if it isn't as prevalent.

I am not perfect.

Recently, someone commented on a post of mine, intimating that I was a hypocrite, that I was proud and touted myself as perfect (signed anonymous--isn't that funny?).  Feeling the sting, I removed the post. I have since reposted it.

I never want to portray myself as perfect.  In fact, the point of my blog is to take my imperfection in this life and succeed despite it.  That I am trying my hardest to change my imperfection to some sort of attempt at bettering myself for the sake of my girls and my Soldier. 

I do not have all the answers. 

And so when "bad days" turn to a "bad week" or "bad string of luck," what's a girl to do?  I am at a loss today.  I can't win the potty training battle.  She's still having accidents.  I can't win the "keeping it all in  control" battle.  I am barely keeping it together between a tantrum-prone toddler and a demanding newborn.  The house is barely staying clean and I haven't done anything enjoyable for myself in weeks.  Emotionally and physically, I am exhausted.  This is tough.

A lot has happened during this deployment.  I look back on the past nearly year.  And I have survived some intense moments, prevailed through some heavy times.  So, when I don't have the answer for surviving the right now, I just look backward and realize that through all of the Crosses, the many weeks, the long months, I have remained standing.  The good times. The not so good times.  And the couple of really rough patches, I have stood standing.  Even though my footing has been uneasy and my confidence faltering, I have finished the day, the weeks, the patches, looking heavenward and still standing. 

I will make this.  To the end.  As imperfect as I am, I will survive.  And all the more joyful, all more wonderful will be my victory.  For it is the imperfect who are more likely to fail, more likely to fall.  But, despite it all--in spite of it--my gaze remains heavenward and my feet stand firmly on the ground.  Though it feels like my insignificant Crosses are crashing about me at times, though I feel as though the light at the end of the tunnel is a train, I will prevail.

Hypocrite?  Never.
Proud?  Ha.  Not me. 
Perfect?  Not yet.

But, I will get there eventually.  Until then, I fight the daily fight for my girls, for my Soldier.  And victory will be mine.  Because though I may stand on that parade field with my feet unsteady, I will still be standing there.  And my Soldier will finally be there, too. 

Charlie Mike.

Precious Moments

This has probably been one of the worst weeks since my Soldier left.  Period. Anything that could have gone wrong, did.  With a vengeance.  All week, I've felt like I was running around putting fires out.  Big fires.  Little fires.  And then my fire extinguisher was empty long before the job was done.  That's been my week.

"The very last part of the deployment is the hardest."  My daughter's pediatrician told me.  Good to be in a military community--it's like family.  They always understand.  And they never sugarcoat things.

"Ma'am?  Do you know how fast you were going?"  The speed limit.  "You were going 12 over."  I knew that wasn't true.  I monitor my speed like an old lady.  In fact, as he was tailing behind me, a pick up truck sped past me like I was standing still.  My first speeding ticket ever.  And I didn't even deserve it.  But, he wrote down the wrong make, model, and year of the car, that the roads were dry (funny, because it was pouring rain), and he also penciled in that I was black.  Ha.  Anyone who knows me, knows you can't get any more white than me.  Now, I have to find time to contest it.  With two kids.  Awesome. 


"Yup!  Media otitis.  Ear infection.  I'm going to give you antibiotics, and you should be good to go."  Not.  Three days into the ear infection, and I go to the doctor...and got antibiotics that didn't work.  Back into the doctor two more times this week, and started better antibiotics.  I am only just now feeling better.  I have great respect for those who struggle with ear infections.  They are wicked.

"Why aren't you online?"  Internet was down.  For two days.  You want to make a military wife angry?  Shut down her internet and refuse to fix it.  I had been dealing with them already for three weeks, when the internet was spotty.  Then it crashed altogether this week.  And that just added fuel to those fires.  A lot of fuel.  From numerous four-hour phone conversations with the internet provider trying get it fixed, to a dinner time trip downtown to get a new modem that made it worse, I was infuriated by this afternoon.  And I let them know.  As nicely as I could.

And then I stopped.

As we got out of the car last night, the train whipped down the tracks just down the road.  My toddler started jumping up and down, clapping her hands.  "Choo choo, Mommy!"  Even though the internet store was closing imminently, even though it was dinner time and throwing off my schedule, even though it was cold and I was irritated and tired, I stopped.  I knelt down.  And we watched and laughed together.

It made me realize something.  Life gets way out of hand sometimes.  And flying solo without my spouse makes those times harder.  Everyone is depending on you and expecting their chunk of time.  Everything and its consequences are on your shoulders.  You run twice as fast, work twice as hard.  And you come last, if you "come" at all.  But I cannot let those precious moments of innocent joy pass me by, regardless of how "bad" a week it has been.  Because the memories are too valuable to ignore.

Some day, she'll be grown.  She won't remember the year we spent getting each other through, comforting each other.  She'll never remember the precious moments we had together while Daddy was gone--in spite of Daddy being gone.  The late night cuddles as she cried, the hugs she gives me when she can tell I'm struggling, the games and laughs we have shared each day.  She'll never remember them.  But, I will.  When she's grown and doesn't have time for Mommy anymore.  When she's a Mommy.  I'll remember when she was tiny and stood next to me as we laughed over the train speeding by.  As she stood in my arms encircling her and mimicked the sounds.  I'll remember.

In that moment--for a moment, life stood still.  The stress and negativity of the week disappeared.  All that mattered was she and I.  Watching that train.  Speed by.  And in a moment, it was gone.