Author: callsignmommy2

The big news — Bin Laden Dead

I’m usually late to the game.  I’m not uber-political and I don’t like to dwell on war news, despite the fact that my husband is rather closely involved in the machinations that make ongoing conflict possible, at least from a “sustainment of the F-18” perspective.  That being said, it’d be impossible not to find oneself in a reflective state of mind after hearing the news of Osama bin Laden’s death.

I’m reading a lot of celebratory news pieces, many of which quote US officials declaring this to be a major victory for our country.  And it’s all falling a bit flat for me.  I guess I can admit that I felt a hatred for this man as strong as any other American’s.  I was living in NYC when the World Trade Center was destroyed, and it sure felt personal then.  I am now feeling slightly unAmerican or unPatriotic for not wanting to celebrate this man’s death.  Don’t get me wrong — I don’t feel remorseful or sad for him, or even for his family.  Anyone who believed with such vehemence in the need to kill as many Westerners as possible has my vote for being taken out.  I feel much the same way about anyone who expresses their religious beliefs with guns and bombs rather than words.  But I do feel like this was a symbolic victory if anything, and am very doubtful that the elimination of one very connected and insidiously powerful man might actually change the course of the wars we are fighting.  It also occurs to me that in the last 10 years, this man has had to exist completely in hiding, which I think must’ve limited his sphere of influence to some degree.  How much pull did he really have in recent events, given the fact that he was unable to speak publicly, use standard means of communication or even walk down the street in his own neighborhood? 

I’m glad he’s gone, but I am not sure it makes me feel much better about the course of these conflicts, and it doesn’t make me feel one lick better about what happened in New York in 2001.

PCS Blues

Our orders are up in July.  Which means that our whole family will be moving to the other coast before too long.  And while I have spent almost 4 years in this town, and tried hard to put a positive spin on it, I will finally just come out and say that I really HATE this place.  I know people will take offense to that — people who are familiar with and fond of this tiny desert town in the middle of absolutely nowhere, at least.  So I need to make it clear that my dislike of this place in no way relates to the people I’ve come to know while we’ve been stationed here.  And in many ways, this town has been very good to me.  I was able to get a job at a relatively prestigious company (because very few talented people with any skills worth having want to live here, thus the job market is pretty easy to navigate); I made some good friends (military spouses stranded together atop a volcano or on a deserted island would befriend each other in much the same manner, I suspect); and I was able to become involved with the community (nothing snarky to add here…).  And I can respect that some people actually choose to live here.  But aside from our beautiful home, which we renovated completely over a three year period (which having another kid and living with 2 crazy boys), this place is desolate and depressing, and I’ll be so glad to watch it fade in my rear view mirror.  The heat I can handle (it’s a dry heat afterall — but 120 is still pretty f*ing hot); it’s the wind that I hate. Sustained winds of 25-45 miles per hour are no fun for anyone. Especially a long haired gas permeable contact lens wearer.

And though I am eager to leave, I’d like to just go ahead and fast forward the next 5 months.  They involve attempting to sell our house (at a great loss certainly, if we can sell at all); supervising packing; cleaning the house; getting across the country with 2 small boys; figuring out where to live on the other side (buy again because we are insane or base housing for which there is a 6 month wait?); and what my job situation will or won’t be out there.  A teensy bit stressful.  At least I’ve found a school for the boys that I believe will be good and they’re both pre-registered to begin in August 1st.  Small victories.  They’ll actually be at the same school on the same schedule, so that will be very nice.

Anyway, as the move date draws nearer, I am more and more stressed about all the details that I can’t simply shove into alignment.  Waiting is not my strong point…

Once Upon a Time…

Sooo… I don’t know if I have mentioned that I’m sort of a writer.  I say sort of for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that saying “I’m a writer” is one of those things that kinda sounds snobby and self-important, a couple of things that I think I sometimes am but am really trying hard not to be.  It kinda sounds to me like saying, “I’m a model,” or “I’m a personal trainer.” I have definitely said the latter (I’ve had more jobs than Heidi Montag — just a totally different kind!), but not the former. ANYWAY, I’m kind of a writer because I don’t do it full time.  My “real” job, for a consulting firm, is as a “technical writer” (so technically, I guess I AM a writer).  And in the past I’ve been a freelance writer, working from home (which involves a lot of baking, television and laundry. Oh, and some writing.)  When I did that, I actually had work published in magazines that people had heard of and even a story published in a book, which was the first time I think my parents started calling me a writer.  And of course, I’m writing this. But since I don’t actually think I have any readers yet (due to a complete lack of mentioning to anyone that I am writing this blog and zero efforts made to publicize it), I’m not sure this counts.

Anyway, none of this is really important to the topic at hand, which is that I have found a new quirky love, thanks to Jen Lancaster, author of “Bitter is the New Black,” which I have not read. I have it on my Kindle (LOVE THE KINDLE) but got distracted by Jean Auel’s last book in the ridiculously verbose series, “Clan of the Cave Bear,” which I think I began reading when I was seven. And even though the last few books haven’t been as good as the first couple, I’m quite goal oriented and cannot stop reading a series unless I’ve gotten to THE. END. Alas, Jen’s book will wait. BUT her blog is wonderful RIGHT NOW! And recently she had a post about the six word story…

Supposedly the origin of this comes from a bar bet with Ernest Hemingway.  Someone said he couldn’t write a short story in six words.  Legend has it he countered with the story:

For sale.  Baby shoes.  Never worn.

I am in love. But can I write a six word story? Don’t know. Let’s see.

Platform shoes, steep driveway. Visiting hospital.

Lunchbox screams incessantly. Mother pours wine.

Guilt-inducing baby fall causes insomnia.

Hmm… mine are more like headlines. I will think on this a while… perhaps an easy way out of the self-induced pressure of writing a blog would be to decide that Thursdays will be SIX WORD THURSDAYS… wait, that sounds dumb. SIX WORD SATURDAYS! Yes! That’s it. Now you’ve got something to look forward to, dontcha?

 

Stark Survival

I want to be a calm nice loving mommy.  I want to be the kind of mommy who spends countless hours having quality time with my children.  Instead, four days every week, I am the mommy who picks my kids up from preschool at 3:30pm when I finish work (I work 24/hours a week, which seems like nothing if you’re putting in 40 – and holy crap if you are doing that and taking care of little monsters at home too – but somehow 24 hours ends up being more like 28 when it’s said and done and I still have time for almost nothing else.  That’s another post.)  So I pick the monsters up and they fight and scream in the car.  Usually Turbo has something interesting in his hands in the back seat that Lunchbox tries desperately to grab but can’t, so he ends up screaming. Or Lunchbox didn’t take a good nap at school and is generally just feeling like a tiny douchbag and so screams all the way home.  Or Turbo feels like a douchebag so he does something purposely to make Lunchbox scream all the way home.  In other words, by the time we get home, I usually have a headache and then get to play the “What the hell’s for dinner?” game.  Sometimes I plan ahead.  Like the third Thursday of every month that ends in “h.”  But only in leap years.  So usually I’m screwed.

Given that I need about 20 minutes to work my special brand of culinary magic, it seems like it’d be easy enough to set the kids up with a drink and a snack and some Backyardigans and get to it.  But instead, this is the time of day when my children are at their most monsterly (especially Lunchbox, who was once my jolly happy baby and is now my whiny, grumpy little wordless wonder.  The Major has taken to calling him “Tiny Whiney.”)

Today, as I created a new taco-type dinner food with ground turkey, canned diced tomatoes and a lot of cheese, I thought I’d scored a minor victory since the boys both went outside to play.  But I was wrong.  Instead, I proved yet again that I am not a very good mommy sometimes. I was emptying the dishwasher, watching the boys play around the slide and playhouse out the kitchen window.  Lunchbox decided to climb the ladder up to the slide. He has only done this with supervision previously, but he appeared quite confident today. Until he got to the top rung, when he slipped through the ladder, hitting his chin on the top rung just before he crashed down to the bottom of the playhouse. I think I flew out the door screaming, “oh no, oh no…” He was fine because, evidently, he is made of rubber.

Once the Major was home, I was trying to deny further responsibility for the monsters, and was sitting at the table pretending that I was reading a magazine when a commotion on the stairs raised my attention.  But not soon enough.  This time Lunchbox came skidding down the entire length of the stairs riding atop Turbo’s bike helmet.  My heart was in my mouth and I yelled things that were not as PC as “oh no” while I raced to see if he was breathing or bleeding or broken.  Again, rubber.

Lunchbox is finally in his crib, fast asleep, and I feel like the worst mother in the world. I get only a few hours to spend with these guys on the days that I work, and I spend a lot of that time just trying to survive them (and hoping that they’ll survive.) We can deny it all we want and sing the praises of work/life balance, but I think that GUILT is truly the anthem of the working mother.