Him

I recently read an article written by a soldier who had been home from Iraq for a year. The article from www.esquire.com was called I Miss Iraq. I Miss My Gun. I Miss My War. It's been on my mind all day. The soldier's perspective was so interesting, so open, so painfully familiar. Not familiar in a sense that I could relate his experience to anything I have ever encountered or that I could even pretend to process what being in a war zone is like, but familiar in that I've watched my husband describe and almost re-live the same experiences.
The author of the articles speaks of the heightened senses a soldier has in a war zone. A soldier is fully aware of his surroundings, because at any given time he can be under attack. In a way, I understand it to be like a constant adrenaline rush, and when the actual attack happens, complete adrenaline dump. A soldier is used to carrying his gun everywhere. He is with his team day in and day out, and each member knows the other so well that they can predict one another’s next move. The transition from heightened awareness and being locked and loaded 24/7 in the Sandbox to monotonous living at home will definitely affect a person.
People often used to say to me, and sometimes still say, "I don't know how you did it..." referring to how I "survived" emotionally while the man I loved was risking his life every day in a foreign land. Truth be told, I vacuumed. A lot. I watched MSNBC and CNN a lot. It was a necessary evil. Letters from Iraq took weeks to arrive, so hearing from my soldier was both comforting and painful. He was okay the day he wrote the letter, but was he okay today? In the wake of the almost decade-long war, news reports would give the number of casualties our troops suffered every day. Feelings of guilt set in as I was able to enjoy the comforts of home every day. A nice, long shower, home-cooked meals, cool, fresh drinking water, plumbing, clean linens and fluffy pillows. Meanwhile, boys were being sent to the desert only to return as men - men forever changed with perspectives of life that most of us will never gain. At first, showers were few and far between, only to be replaced by baby wipes. MREs (meals ready to eat) substituted Mom’s homemade lasagna. Water was rationed, and our soldiers slept on cots covered by mosquito netting or on the hard ground in a sleeping bag. Sand covered every surface while a decent restroom was a distant memory. Factor in the suffocating heat with pounds upon pounds of heavy protective gear, daily firefights and IED attacks, and living conditions “over there” were nothing short of abysmal.
It was not me that "survived" emotionally or physically from the experience. It was him. My husband. My soldier. My hero. My love. I have watched a man deal with things, major things, that I think would have broken me long ago. His strength amazes me. His perseverance astonishes me. His successes in life make me more proud than words can describe. I appreciate him. I watch him with our children and thank God every day for getting him home safely to me. I thank Him for the life we have been able to build together and for the memories made and for the tomorrows to come. However, as scary and negative as war seems, and is, I still look at my husband’s experience as a positive one. It has shaped him into the man he is today. I know he misses Iraq. I know he misses his gun. And I know he misses his war. But from those things, he has made lifelong friends and gained experience and skills he has carried over to his civilian job. And years from now, I’ll be baking cookies for our grandchildren while they are gathered around him, listening to the stories that I know were years ago, but will still seem like yesterday to him.

Grace is Upon Us

I am ashamed to admit that it has been almost a year since I have blogged. Therefore, there is much to say, but so much that will be left unsaid. I will focus tonight on the most amazing event of the year.

Let me start by discussing a most beautiful and common word: GRACE. GRACE is defined as elegance or beauty of form. GRACE is a pleasing or attractive quality or endowment. GRACE is favor or good will. GRACE is our new baby daughter's middle name.

Theologically, GRACE is defined as the freely given, unmerited favor and love of GOD. It is the influence or spirit of God operating in humans to regenerate or strengthen them.

Although we picked the name Sophie Grace before we laid eyes on our precious surprise, Grace could not have been more fitting. In the past two months, I have watched my children grow and mature in the most surprising of ways. Sure, Cade and Mason are still wildly boisterous and the funniest of characters, and Claire is still our sweet, delicate little beauty. As Sophie Grace entered our lives, our older children have each equally exhibited grace in their own way. I see Cade eager to help like never before. He kisses Sophie first before he kisses anyone else at bedtime. Everyday, he asks when he can teach her to walk, talk, or throw a baseball. Claire is the first to ask if Sophie is "feeling alwight." She is anxious to help pick out her clothes for the day and kiss her little forehead. Mason takes time to pay attention to where his baby sister is before he runs, tumbles, or karate chops his way into the room. He, too, cannot give her enough kisses.

When Wes and I learned we were expecting our tiny miracle, we knew God had a plan. Never before did I think our family could get any closer or grow any stronger. I have never been so wrong. I watch my husband with our youngest daughter. He is an old pro with newborns, therefore, he is much more relaxed. Watching his casual way of handling Sophie when she seems inconsolable is both comforting and amazing. The love for my husband has grown exponentially deeper in a time when I didn't think I could possibly love him more. Seeing our children become more patient and mature and love their sister without an ounce of jealousy makes my heart swell. I look at my life at this moment and know how much God loves me. He has given me so much love, so much GRACE, and I see it everyday in a strong and handsome man who is my pillar of strength, and in my now FOUR beautiful children: each pieces of my heart roaming this planet, and teaching me something new every day.

GOD. IS. GOOD.

Cade's Dad Interview!

1. What is something Dad always says to you?
I love you!

2. What makes Dad happy?
his whole family!

3. What makes Dad sad?
When I'm away

4. How does your Dad make you laugh?
tickling me!

5. What was your Dad like as a child?
I think he had brown hair.

6. How old is your Dad?
29

7. How tall is your Dad?
9 feet

8. What is his favorite thing to do?
Having family time

9. What does your dad do when you're not around?
He works

10. If your dad becomes famous, what will it be for?
A movie star!

11. What is your dad really good at?
Catching bad guys and lifting weights!

12. What is your dad not very good at?
He's not good at my playstation game.

13. What does your dad do for his job?
He catches bad guys and does lots and lots of paperwork!

14. What's your dad's favorite food?
Hamburgers, steak, meatloaf, and spaghetti with meatballs

15. What makes you proud of your dad?
Everything!

16. If your dad were a cartoon character, who would he be?
Mario!

17. What do you and your dad do together?
Work out, go to Game Stop, fishing, baseball

18. How are you and your dad the same?
Both of us have brown hair!

19. How are you and your dad different?
He has a ring and I don't, and I have more hair!

20. How do you know your dad loves you?
Because he's my dad and we do lots of stuff together and he tells me!

21. Where is your dad's favorite place to go?
GameStop with me!

22. What is your favorite place to go?
Game Stop and Wal-Mart!

Brothers

I always wondered what it would have been like to have an older sister. I was fortunate enough to grow up with a little brother of my own. Sure, there was bickering, but for the most part, I felt it was my duty (and still do, to an extent) to protect my Michael. However, the feeling of having an older sibling of the same gender just seemed like something I never could quite understand. When I was pregnant with my twins, knowing that one was a boy, I often wondered: How were my boys going to interact? Would it be a love like I share with my brother, or are they close enough in age that would allow plenty of knock-down, drag-out fights? Only time would tell...
Tonight, my three year old and seven year old boys (who share a room) began crying simultaneously. As I entered their bedroom to check out who hit whom first, Mason said, "Mommy! Cade's mad at me!" At the same time, Cade said, "Mom! Mason doesn't want me to be his big brother anymore!" The sobs were unimaginable. Tears and snot are still on my shirt. After a quick "It's going to be okay" session, everyone hugged and made up, and my boys decided they wanted to love eachother forever again. As I watch my boys grow together, I realize they get closer with every day that passes. Through the fighting, laughing, crying, playing, cuddling, and everything in between, I know that the bonds they have made and are continuing to strengthen will last forever.

Baby Brother

Phillip Michael,
Again, you have made me so incredibly proud of you. I have watched you grow into such an amazing man, husband, and father. All that you have accomplished in so few years leaves me speechless. As you enter this next chapter in your life, I want you to know that I wish nothing but the best for you and your precious family. I will always be your big sister and one of your number one supporters. I love you more than you will ever know, and I hope to see you again soon. Thank you for being one of the most loving, caring, selfless and hilarious people in my life. I am truly blessed that God gave me you as my baby brother.
Please watch this and know that everytime I hear it, I think of you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zxjVCBSa-Vs&feature=related

Reality

In the aftermath of Jon and Kate Plus Eight, minus Jon, plus skanky college girl, minus skanky college girl, plus Jon again on the weekends, minus Kate trying to Dance as a Star, well, you get the idea...I am left with a guilty pleasure show void on Monday nights. So, I have a tiny thought. I have contemplated the idea of Wes and Nicole Plus Three. Not really, but I often find that the conversations that we have in our funny little family are quite entertaining.
For instance, last night Wes and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning installing a new countertop and sink in the kitchen. Therefore, we had no running water until about 1 a.m.
9:00:
(Me, while watching my husband work tirelessly on the mitre bolts underneath the countertop) Honey, I have to pee.
(Honey) Then go pee.
(Me) I can't, because I can't flush.
(Honey) You can flush once; it just won't fill back up.
(Me) But I already used my one flush!
(Cade from the other room) Mom! There's something wrong with the toilet!

(Mason today) Mom, I not a boy. I a puppy. You cwazy and Sue Sue cwazy and Daddy cwazy and Neener cwazy. I not cwazy. I a puppy!

(Cade after school today) Mom, can I play with Benjamin when we get home?
(Me) We need to study your spelling words first.
(Cade) I don't have a spelling test tomorrow. I have a note in my backpack that says no more spelling tests.
(Me) Let me read that note.
(Cade as we are parking the car in the driveway) I'll read it to you later. Bye, Mom!

(Me working with Claire on her speech the other day) Claire Bear, say Mason Edward.
(Claire) Meesuh Ehwer!
(Me) Good job! Now, say Cade Alan.
(Claire) Cade Ayan!
(Me) High five! Now, say Claire Elise.
(Claire) Sue Sue!
She definitely got points for originality.

TLC, you may contact me at any time.

You want me to write, so I'll write...

It has been suggested to me that I write more, so I guess I will just write a short story...a short TRUE story.
Sooooo...here is part one of my little story:

Time was quickly going by. I stood in the airport with an extremely sore throat and about 6 million knots in my stomach. What do I say? Should I even be here? Did I wear the right thing? Should I go to the bathroom one more time? The apprehension I was feeling at this exact moment was not unlike the nervousness I had felt in high school track meets just before the starter blew the gun of my 400 meter dash. My coach had always promised me a port-a-potty at the finish line just to ease my nerves. Oh, how I’d wanted that blessed little blue stall right now. In minutes, I was to meet the man, the soldier, the angel, that I had been writing for the past several months.
It all began with a suggestion. My cousin, Chase, was deployed shortly after the events of September 11, 2001. He had just arrived in Baghdad, Iraq, when he wrote my family a letter. In it, he wrote a post script asking if I could “help out a friend” by writing him in order to keep his spirits up. He had recently gone through a lot, and for all I knew, he had no one else. Of course, I agreed. I wanted to do anything I could to help the soldiers that were so bravely fighting against terrorism. How difficult would it be to write a few letters of encouragement? Chase had mentioned that he would give this friend of his my address and I could go from there.
At that particular time in my life, I was not looking for a relationship. In fact, I had pretty much written off that possibility indefinitely. I had a four month old son and was dealing with my own difficulties. My little man was a blessing from above, but I was still struggling with much more than I was equipped to handle at that point in life.
I received my first letter in July. I had immediately noticed that it took about a month to get to me. The soldier introduced himself. He wrote of his interests-interests that were almost identical to mine- and where he came from. I learned that he had a mother and father that were very much involved in his life, and for that, I was grateful. It had killed me to think that this person quite possibly had no one to come home to. However, I was still going to write this soldier, this Wesley.
Writing letters to Wesley was an easy task. With so much in common, we had a lot to “talk” about. With every letter I wrote, he answered, and vise versa. I would look forward to getting the red, white, and blue-lined envelopes every day. After a few weeks, the excitement of receiving a letter would enliven me. I would try to counteract the fluttering excitement in my heart with my head by saying to myself Don’t get so excited. You are just in a small town so you don’t have a lot more to look forward to right now. Get a life! But I didn’t want to get a life. This soldier, this man risking his life every day, was beginning to fill the small holes in my heart left by past hurts and fears. The very words written on the sandy paper from his notebook were beginning to etch into my soul.
I was emailed a picture of my soldier from Chase’s fiancée. I melted. His ocean-blue eyes were eyes that I knew I wanted to look into forever. In the picture, he stood in front of a sandy-brown tent in his desert camouflage uniform holding an M249 S.A.W. This picture really put into perspective what he was looking at every day. The monotony of the desert landscape had to be nothing less than depressing. I went shopping the next day for the first package of goodies I sent.
I had not anticipated what I would encounter with the United States Postal Service while mailing the care package to my soldier. I had not expected the first of what would turn into several meetings with a person that still makes me tremble. I was not prepared for Large Marge, the Post Office Nazi.
Stay tuned...