Vacation Days

I don’t really understand how Turbo’s school plans their schedule.  It seems like we pay the same amount each month, but each month has a completely random number of school days, based on the whims and vacation plans of the staff.  I imagine their calendar planning sessions might go like this:

Random Administrator #1:  Oh, cool, look.  February 21st is Presidents’ Day.  So we don’t have to have those pesky kids here that day.

Random Administrator #2:  Awesome.  Oh hey, I was thinking of taking a long weekend to go to San Diego and check out some of the new bars. Think we could make Friday a holiday too, then?

RA1:  Sure, I don’t see why not.  It isn’t like we’ll make any less money just for having fewer school days!

RA2:  I almost feel bad for the parents who still have to work on those days… what will they do with their kids?

RA1:  Not our problem!

RA2:  Right you are!

(High five each other and then chest bump.)

Seriously – what am I supposed to do with my kids when their schools are closed but my company is still open?  How do other parents deal with this?

I regained my sanity by going back to work 60%.  That means 24 hours a week, people… it isn’t a lot.  I have no idea how moms with full time jobs can possibly pull it off.  And my kids are tiny – how do you deal with school schedules that run from 8am to 2pm when work is from 7:30 to 4:30??  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll end up being a “stay at home” mom when my kids start “real school” because I’ll have no other choice.  How do other moms handle this?  I don’t think the Major would be too pleased to hear that I plan to quit when Turbo enters kindergarten – and frankly, I think I’d lose my mind staying home full time!

Ignorance is Bliss

Ten Aces with a Queen

My grandfather was an Army Air Corps pilot.  He flew a B-24 “liberator” in World War II.  He was part of the 445th Bomb Group, stationed at Tibenham, England.  Today is the 67th anniversary of his death.

When I married a military pilot, my grandmother lost her ability to speak to me for a while.  The first time she fully tried to grasp what, exactly, this man I was going to marry did in the Marine Corps, she clarified a couple times – “He’s a pilot?” “I mean, he flies planes into combat?”  I saw dark shadows pass across her eyes as I confirmed that yes, this man I loved had the same job as a man that she loved many years ago – the man she could no longer talk about or even acknowledge aloud.

I learned about my grandfather from my mom and from her grandmother.  That was my great-grandma.  I have fond memories of her, though I always suspected that she liked my brother more than she cared for me.  How could I know, as a child, that when she looked at my brother she probably saw shadows of her lost son?  My brother looked just like my grandfather as a boy.  That woman, my great-grandma, lost two boys to World War II.  A third, “Uncle Bill,” was kept from “joining up” as a result.  I cannot imagine what she went through during those times. I often look at my boys and hope that they don’t think they should follow their dad’s footsteps.

Today I shared the smallest glimpse of what my grandmother might have endured, in reading the journal my grandfather kept during flight training, and in reading the letters sent home by the men who flew with him.  There was a picture of her in black at a memorial parade held soon after his death.  I stared at it for a long time, trying to read her face.  Part of me marveled that she had participated in this (there were four widows at the front of the procession), as I cannot recall her ever acknowledging my mom’s father, but she’d probably gotten to her silence gradually.

My mother was born two weeks exactly before her father was killed by the flak that entered the cockpit during a bombing mission over France.  As she was beginning to see those who loved her for the first time, I imagine many of their faces were torn with conflict — joy at this new life, and grief for the father she’d never have the opportunity to know.

The strangest part of reading the documents and looking at the photos was realizing the date.  It was a complete coincidence that I was going through these things today of all days – the anniversary of his death.

I can’t pretend to know what it is like to lose your spouse to war.  I can only hope that my ignorance will continue.  Given The Major’s current career path, the odds are good that he won’t deploy again, so my ignorance is likely to continue.

Every day is like Christmas

My 3 year old son, who I will ever-after for the purposes of this blog, refer to as Turbo, has not quite grasped the concept of time passage.  (or of toilet paper, but that is another story and I don’t have the stomach for it tonight.)  He is excited about the Christmas season this year in a way that he hasn’t been previously, but the entire affair must seem quite mystifying to him.  From his perspective, it appears that Christmas:

1.  Is the name of the man in the red suit, who is also sometimes referred to as Santa.  But Turbo knows that his name is really Christmas, which is why he asks every day if we are going to see Christmas.  (Because the squadron had a “meet Santa” event where Santa flew in on an H-60 to the hangar, which was really pretty cool.  But while other kids were yelling, “Santa!” Turbo was yelling, “Christmas is coming!”)

2.  Is a notion conceived by adults to allow them to wrap presents, taunt you with them and refuse to allow you to open them until this mystical “Christmas” guy shows up.  (And since we see him at parties and even at WalMart lately, it is doubly confusing that Mom and Dad keep saying ‘no.’)

3.  Somehow involves not only the aforementioned “Christmas / Santa” character, but also has something to do with “Roxy” the Snowman, angry trolls (I have explained that these are elves and that they are not angry or grouchy, but to no avail), reindeer, penguins and Polar Bears.  I think he believes that Dora is somehow involved, too.

4.  Allows Mom and Dad to warn him that “Santa is watching” in an ominous way, as if that might entice him to give up getting out of bed ninety-seven times each night or possibly convince him not to push his brother over when he thinks we’re not watching.

5.  Results in the appearance of multitudes of cookies and other treats that are evidently inedible, since he is never offered any.

I have tried to use this season to talk about giving to others, and we are even sponsoring a local family for whom we are buying gifts.  Turbo picked out a great toy for the boy in this family and then cried piteously when he realized that I really, honestly, truly wasn’t going to break down and let him keep it after all.  “He can get HIS OWN!” was his sympathetic refrain.  Next year, I guess…

As confusing as much of this probably is to little Turbo, there is an upside here.  He wakes up every day lately believing truly, honestly and with all his heart, that it might be Christmas, that day I keep telling him about.  Today he told the lady who cut his hair that there was only one more day until Christmas.  Boy is he gonna be disappointed tomorrow.  That being said, he wakes up every day full of hope and joy, thinking this could be the best day ever.  And despite my fears that letting him know each day that Christmas isn’t here yet might break his little spirit, it doesn’t.  Because the fact is that at three years old, he manages to find something else to be joyful about every day.  I hope that will remain true his entire life because I sure do struggle to find that sense of joy in a new day sometimes.