tuffchick

Today I was having a bummed out moment on my run (you know, the only time in my life when I have time to complete a thought?) and I was thinking about our budget, or rather our lack of money thanks to the end of hardship duty pay. Apparently training to be a green beret is not as dangerous as being a drill Sgt. Who knew?
And, as usual, I had to quit my job when we moved, which will leave a huge gap in my resume. None of this is new to any of you Army wives. It was the perfect job. It  paid well, I loved it, I was using my education and it didn't keep me away from my kids more than a few hours a week.
Initially I decided (really it was a 'we' decision) that I shouldn't work here because we'll only be at Bragg for a year and I hate to leave brandy-new babies in childcare having spent way too much time analyzing this country's childcares as part of my jobby job (that's for a later blog). Then the boredom set in and my budget became tighter and now I'm trying to get a few classes lined up for the fall and clipping coupons in the meantime and blogging to stimulate my seemingly dormant intellectual side.

So I get this guilt when I am pinching pennies, particularly when I take a run through the ridiculously rich side of town. My kids don't live in a neighborhood with an association and we only have one car because that's what we can afford. I feel bad. I feel like I've jipped them out of the American dream/ I could say it's because we have a big family, which certainly costs money, but really it's because we're an Army family. There's this rumor amongst the general public that soldiers make good money. Notice I said soldiers and not officers. The truth is we don't. If you want to sh*t your pants imagine living on this: http://www.dfas.mil/army2/militarypaycharts/2010MilitaryPayTable34.pdf
Sure, we could be a two income family, but factor in the 2 years per city time limit and the amount of time it takes to get a job, not mention the fact that bases are usually located in economically depressed areas, and it can be tough. This Army wife and lawyer puts it pretty well:  http://www.csmonitor.com/Commentary/Opinion/2008/0222/p09s01-coop.html

So I called this a bitch fest and I guess that really is the end of the bitching, because I came to a conclusion or five and was reminded of a few things:

1. My husband's job is as or more important than police, fire fighters and ambulance drivers. He's there in emergencies and always on call. When America gets bombed he's ready to go find those bastards.

2. Few people have the balls to be in the military and even fewer have the balls to be combat arms soldiers. Even less would spend a year in Iraq looking for IED's for 24,000 a year. Those who can and will probably should. Otherwise this country is pretty screwed.

3. Few women are strong enough to be alone for long periods of time without family raising kids on a limited budget. Few women are able to handle the a holes who give us the "they signed up for it" bullshit we hear from people who should be happy that they did so their pansy asses don't have to get drafted. Those few should be Army wives 9and the husband's of those Army wives better charge some jewlry come Christmas)

4. It's okay to make next to nothing when your 'work' is admirable, heroic and important. Hell, my liberal ass would probably still be running a child development center in Maine and making next to nothing anyway because I can't deny care to people who need regardless of what they can pay. I consider this job a long term 'pro-bono case'

5. And finally, it's okay for me to not have a 'job' right now. My kids experience a lot of upheaval for the benefit of other American kids, none of which they asked for. I hear a lot of complaints about broken families, but no one seems to object to military kids having their fathers leave to risk their lives for a year at a time and then come home ready to move them around the country again. My kids need some consistency and I'm it. Well, me and Tricare prime.

6. I have a job. I'm an Army wife. You try doing this shit. I don't get paid and I don't get credit. Being married to a soldier is like being a celebrity's wife without the money. It's all about their career all the time and nothing you do is as important unless you screw up. Then it's big news.

Anyway, so I'm gonna try to stop feeling like a screw up because I have a Master's degree and I'm still lying about my income on those surveys they send me. It's okay that my kids don't live in a 3000 sq ft house. They'd never clean their rooms anyway. I'm gonna try to remember what I do have, the way I do when my husband's deployed and I could give a crap about anything I own or have ever owned and would willingly trade it to have my family back together again. I probably know better than most Americans that a flat screen and a hummer do not a happy family make 9although if you have one to spare I'll be willing to test that theory). Happiness is not a tea cup Yorkie in a Prada purse, it's seeing your husband sleeping safely in your bed and knowing that your trained killer makes ridiculous faces to make your babies laugh. It's picking up the dirty clothes he leaves on the floor without getting too irritated because a too-clean house means he's gone again. It's knowing that you're married to and in love with someone who has a sense of honor and responsibility you can't find on Match.com.

So for today and the rest of my time a Ft. Bragg I'll be trying to feel a little less guilty that my kids don't have family pictures in the front yard of our gated community and tha I can't afford to send them to private school. I'm going to feel a little more grateful that they're being raised in a family where love is the most important 'thing' we own and dad models morals the nanny can't teach.

But don't think I won't complain that the Colonel's wife gets to park in his spot at the PX. WTH? Since when does she wear rank?

I've been feeling a little sorry for myself lately which is a dangerous trap for an Army wife to fall into. I've long known it's a bad idea to compare one's life as an Army wife to the lives of others, but I've gone and done it and the result has been an overly-emotional and unnecessarily stressful week. Let me put it this way: I saw a clip of that bastard husband from John and Kate plus 8 go skiing on Kate's birthday and I yelled out "asshole!" so loud my husband burst out of the shower.

As with the last 14 months of Drill Sergeant duty my hubby is rarely home during the waking hours of the kiddos. He's been home about 6 pre-bedtime/ post-bugle hours in the past two weeks training 18 year old fresh-from-prom teenagers to kill people because someone thought it was a good idea to have a couple of wars during my child-bearing years.  Somewhere a wife with a hubby in Iraq is rolling her eyes at my self-indulgent pity party. I might have told someone like myself off had I met me on the last two combat tours for saying such a thing.  I can tell that bitter (I can duck a punch) and stressed out woman I've been there twice and I'm doin' it again in 2010. Trust me: drill duty is no joke. Don't let him drop that packet! Fight the orders! There's no combat pay, no GWOT care, no free skies services and no husband. Plus, you can't play the "my kids are pricks because their dad is at war" card. "Their dad is a Drill Sgt" sounds really stupid when they're outta hand in Wal-Mart.

So, my kids can't swim and my youngest is having trouble perfecting the art of bike riding. Our budget/ family schedule doesn't allow for swim lessons and I don't have a sitter to pay to watch the other rascals while I teach my kids skills they should already have (and probably would) if my husband had a normal nine to five. My oldest learned to ride her bike while her daddy was in Iraq because her best friend had the good fortune of having her daddy home to teach her and he took it upon himself to teach my baby too (I am FOREVER grateful James).
   The guilt associated with this along with the stress of having to take my kids EVERYWHERE, including some scary medical appointments, has made me resentful of the fact that I don't have family or friends to help me out when I truly, truly need it. I don't mean to watch the kids for a commissary, I mean. "Hey, I'm in labor. Can someone drive me to the hospital?" or "I'm bringing home twins today. Wanna help me take care of them?" To their credit my folks sent me some money from across the country to hire a little help, but I really needed someone I could run around topless in front of (breastfeeding twins is a full-time job) and the Army needed my husband for that whole 'war thing'. I had some great Army wives that helped, but I know they were just as stressed as I was and I hated to burden them. That was really my personal Hiroshima and although I've had some major incidences since then, that was really the point when I realized I was alone in all of this. And I should be I suppose. We chose this lifestyle and we had these kids. The plus side to this is of course that i don't have to answer to anybody about the choices I make within my family. I have to admit though, as independent and stubborn as I am, I sometimes I need a little assistance even in that department. It would be nice to have someone there who has known my kids their whole lives and knows them well enough to be able to look on not only more objectively than mom, but also with familiarity and love. It just isn't in the cards as they say. One must make due with a good babysitter (mine are in Chicago for the summer), decent neighbors (if you are lucky) and a little red wine (not in your front yard I was told).

     I woke up this morning and found my long-lost big girl panties a little tight as i put them on so I could bring all four off-spring to meet the on-post school principal with a smile and a kind, "we don't hit when we can use our words" instead of  "stop frickin' hitting!". Then I reluctantly called my 85 year old grandma to explain why I don't really want to move to Ft. Drum, NY, the closest duty station to my family. Our Army family would like to 'milk the military' for it's European/ Oconus benefits while we can I explained, and going back the Northeast seems like a stagnant existence. While we'd be close to my family the truth is my grandparents are aging too quickly to make long trips and my parents work full time and run two businesses. Another harsh reality is that I have 4 young children I am not willing to sit with in a car for 8 hours. While we'd certainly have family holidays. no one in my family really has the time or ability to be an active participant in my immediate family unit.
I was surprised to hear that she understood. Totally.
   And then she shared with me something that made me cry over my half unloaded dishwasher. My 85 year old Memere has a younger sister she has been best friends with her whole life. This sister is the 'baby' of 12 children but in adulthood she became my Memere's confidant, much in the way Memere is mine. As unbelievably healthy as my Memere is for her age, her little sister and best friend is suffering from Parkinsons. As she mentally deteriorates their inside jokes are disappearing, the memories of their long lives together are fading and my Memere, who is married to a man with borderline dementia and has watched so many friends and family members die in 85 years, feels very alone. I try to force down the lump in my throat  as I tell her I can't imagine grieving for someone who is still alive and she tries to keep things cheerful as she goes abruptly because she feels she has to be the supportive one. I let her end our conversation in a way that dignifies her role and let myself cry before the kids want their lunch.

  And after I hand out sandwiches and fruit I am left to watch my kids with their many, many siblings. Some get along better with others. Some are family and some are friends AND family. And I know they aren't really deprived or disadvantaged because of what their father does. A few events may be delayed and they might have to skip out on the school 'celebrate dads' barbecue, but there are benefits too. Not only do they get to enjoy exploring the country and the diversity within it, but they have developed bonds that can rarely be found in today's tiny American families. Deployments, moves, war deaths and injuries and the resulting need to rely on each other for strength distill the relationships in Army families. We always have each other to come home to, wherever home may be.
   People always comment on the size of Army families. Perhaps it's the benefits, maybe it's the deployments, but I honestly believe we have larger families because we know that families are really the best part of life. No one ever looks back and wishes they'd worked more, had more now out-dated electronic devices or vacations. They wish they'd treasured their children and their siblings and their parents after they're gone. They remember backyard barbecues, the frog they found (like the one my children are currently torturing...I mean playing with) and seeing the country in a loud, smelly car with a dog or two on their laps.

    Civilian women always stop me to ask me how I do it. They claim they couldn't survive without their 'mother's helper' their 'girl's night' or being able to drop their kids off with aunts and grandmas. Maybe they couldn't. If that's the case I hope they never have to. I know I can. I can raise my own children without a village and only a few favorite equally stressed out Army wives to rely one. I can handle this many children because I have to. I don't need their pity and I dislike the attention my large seemingly fatherless attention gets, but part of me knows these women are jealous because they can barely handle the privileged hand that has been dealt to them.

It's not a perfect life. Dad isn't always home. Then again he's out being a hero. The male role model in our house has a job most 9-5 dads couldn't and wouldn't be willing to do. He may not be at every PTA meeting but  he has been on CNN and on the front of the newspaper. And while not all military wives can say this, I can tell you assuredly that when my husband is home he doesn't plant himself in front of a laptop, big screen or PDA. He isn't MIA on the golf-course or in the garage. He's taking my kids to the park, tucking them in or teaching them to ride their bikes (he plans to this Saturday). And they don't have Clare Huckstable for a mom either. This mom cries in the shower,  looks like hell unless it's date night and sometimes raises her voice so that it can be heard through paper thin government-housing walls.

But I think I'm showing my kids that they can do anything anywhere at anytime, even if I do it in a frenzied borderline hysterical way. Even if I beg for help that never comes and complain about the local civilian wives and their nannies. Even when I indulge in a week of self-pity and wish I had a week sans children. Sometimes I can't live with my kids, but I could NEVER live without them.

 

It’s Twins!

 

So today in the commissary checkout I saw the cover of People Magazine. It featured the ultra-gorgeous and super air-brushed Brangelina and their new baby twins. Rather than contemplating whether they used fertility treatments or how she stayed so damned skinny while carrying a watermelon in her uterus I wondered out loud: “How come I didn’t get on the cover of People? All I got when I had my twins was a husband in Iraq and a letter from the president in which my son’s name was misspelled”

 

Fortuantely most of the other patrons were retired military and their old-age contributed to partial deafness, otherwise I probably would have been caught in another of those moments when I regret that there is so much on my mind that I forget to turn on the ol’ inner monologue.

 

But seriously, where was my press? I can’t help but resentful of a couple who can close down an entire African country for the birth of their third child and return to their mansion where nannies await to insert a silver moon into the mouth of their pouty-lipped spawn.

 

I found out we were having twins right before my husband was sent off to another year long deployment in Iraq. He waited at the battalion bbq while I headed in for a routine 10 week OB appointment. Although I had accidently arrived a day early, rather than sending me home, the ancient but experienced ob on call took one look at my pot belly and ordered an ultrasound. There I lay on the dark table as he waved the wand of fate over my jelled skin. I feared the worst having the strangest reproductive history most medical students have seen (residents love it when I come in; I think I made it into a textbook once). Molar pregnancy again I thought. Then a gravelly old voice said, “there’s two of ‘em”. I sat up and almost knocked the man over. “Two what?” I said pointing to the light switch a which nimble nurse took as her cue. “Two babies” he said turning the monitor. There they were, two lima beans with flickering chest cavities. It still hadn’t registered. Part of me thought I might have passed out, unable to take the latest bad and borderline freakish news about my reproductive history. “You mean like, twins?” “Twins” he said. “Turn on the lights!” I commanded overlooking the fact that they were already on. And so began my list of questions: how will I breastfeed? “God gave ya two breasts” Are they keepers? “I’d say so ma’am”.

And then I flew out of there, pictorial proof in hand, desperately trying to reach my husband via his soldier’s cell phone.

And I swear he didn’t believe it until I arrived at the bbq, marched across the volleyball field and showed him and the 14^th engineer company and all of their spouses the photos. It was at that moment that I became the martyr for the whole deployment.  No wife could really complain about having a baby alone, about her four kids or her mother-in-law that had moved in. I was Moody’s wife with a 5 year old, a 2 year old, twins on the way and a husband in Iraq.

 

A soldier’s wife doesn’t do it alone even if her husband is there. My newly acquired girlfriends (we had just PCSed a few months prior) threw me a baby shower a week before Bill left. At five months pregnant I said good bye to my husband as he walked to his ride to the bus that would put him on his journey to Iraq. My girlfriends stepped up, some pregnant themselves, most with husbands that were already deployed, all with kids of their own. My girls and I didn’t spend a holiday alone, my friends made sure of it. We had a beautiful Thanksgiving crammed into quarters that were too small for all of us and on the demolition list. From soul food to Philipino food we ate until our stomachs hurt and laughed almost as hard as we did when our husbands weren’t away at war.  

 

I was the wonder of my moms of multiples group. Most women sat around trading names of nannies and wondering how they would do it while their husband’s worked all day.  Maybe it’s because I’m an overachiever and maybe it’s because I knew I’d never be able to live with myself if I let my children down, but I didn’t fear the birth of the twins. When I worried it was about my husband’s safety and the idea that we might be alone permanently, my friends having moved on with their living husbands and I left to raise two boys and two girls with only photographs and videos to help them know their father.

 

Days passed and I grew so large it was comical. Some days I wondered if I wasn’t some weird Army experiment intended to find out how much enlisted wife could handle.  After all, twins don’t even run in my family. Strangers still ask if I used fertility treatments. Are you kidding me? Look at me wrong and I’m pregnant. I’ve got 4 kids at 29 for goodness sake.

I kept hoping I’d receive a surprise visit from Laura Bush. She’d arrive with the press, announcing that despite our political differences and the fact that her husband had sent mine away for 12 months, she’d like to use her experience with twins to help me out. The best I got was a post card with a stamp signature and congratulating me on the birth of my son “Makayla”.

 

To be continued…

 It’s no secret that I hate Columbia, South Carolina. Anyone who knows me has heard me complain more in the past six months than I have over the course of my almost 30 years on this Earth.

There’s a saying in the Army: “Home is Where the Army Sends You” and up until this point it’s been true. I’ve lived in housing and hotels all over this country and have held a mailing address in all four corners of it. I’ve called many places ‘home”
South Carolina is where this Army Wife draws the line.
I was born and raised a New England Yankee but I’ve blended in in New Mexico, Washington, New York and every state in between. Except South Carolina. And Lord help me if I ever do.
I decided to compile a little list of the things about South Carolina that suck, so that all of you can get a sense of the cause of my extreme misery, but before I do I want to get this out of the way: The South is alright. There are some truly great states here. I love me some Chatanooga and some Memphis. Arkansas didn’t seem too bad. Missouri? Boring, but straight.
Now on to the anus of America: South Carolina.
The following is a list of things I hate MOST about Columbia, SC (and the rest of the state for that matter)

1. Carolina Pride! Can you feel it?
This first and most annoying thing about South Carolina is that the natives seem to feel that it is the best and only place on earth. They don’t seem to leave the state (or county for that matter) for anything including higher education. They attend USC or Clemson (unless they’re black and then it’s SCSU). I have never been to a state where natives feel compelled to advertise their state of origin. You can get Carolina merchandise at your local Piggly Wiggly and it ain’t tourists that wear ‘em. Every white native SCer must have a palmetto/ crescent moon bumper sticker, hat or embroidered polo t shirt. WTF? I say that a lot.
This brings me to #2.

2. The state uniform for white children.
 If you are a white girl child it is imperative to your acceptance at the local private school that you wear a bob hair cut and a colorful hair bow at least 3” wide. And regardless of where you are going and how impratical it is you just have to wear a smocked dress. Your momma doesn’t care if you’re going to hang on the monkey bars, you won’t leave the house without it. This outfit is tied together with Crocs. Your mama wouldn’t let you be caught dead in knock off’s either. In the current economy it might seem practical to wear $5 garden shoes from Walmart, but your mom will give up all 7 of her weekly soy lattes just so you can wear $35 rubber moccasins with holes.
Now, on to the boys. Up until the age of 3 little boys wear these heinous jumpers with embroidery in pastel colors. After that it’s baby gap polos and khakis just like daddy.

3. Carolina Girls “The finest in the world”.
TO be honest with you I’m still trying to figure out what a Carolina Girl is. I see the above slogan on the back of all sorts of expensive sports cars and SUV’s. The girls I see driving these have two distinguishing characteristics, white and white. If I pass said sticker of license plate frame I expect to see a girl between the ages of 18 and 35 wearing paris Hiltonesque sun glasses, a chic blonde bob and holding a latte. The Carolina Girl sticker is usually accompanied by a Game cock sticker (see below).
Now, I can’t really speak to the whole “best in the world” motto because I haven’t seen the whole world yet. The thing is I can almost guarantee the women who drive around claiming to be the self-selected “best in the world” haven’t met many women outside of the state let alone outside of the country. How can they be sure they are in deed the best? This brings me to Southern pride.

4. Extreme Southern Pride
Okay, as I mentioned before many native South Carolinians don’t really seem to like leaving their state or region of origin. I believe this is because they are raised with the “that’s how we do it in Dixie”, “best in the world” “rebels and sons of the Confederates” mentality which leads them to believe they don’t need to see the rest because they’ve been raised up in the best. I mean really, who needs a big mac when you’ve got a chef to serve you Filet Minogn? Or Maurice's Barbecue for that matter?
This brings me to the unofficial flag of the South: the Confederate flag.
The city I live in is 50% black yet the Confederate flag is still being flown on the state capital. On a recent trip to the zoo I watched as a white women pushed her way through a crowd of black families wearing a shirt which displayed a large Confederate flag that read “if this offends you you need a history lesson”. In New York she would have lost her front teeth (assuming that she’d had any to begin with). Here in South Carolina she belongs to a club of white people who feel it’s okay to be white trash as long as “we ain’t coloreds”. They stick the confederate flag on anything that will stand still and I doubt most of them could tell you who won the civil war. The Confederate flag symbolizes their way of life, even if that way was beat out of ‘em in the 1860’s.
It’s fine to be proud of where you came from. I’m damned proud of my state. Of course my home state has one of the highest per capita student spending rates, some of the best private colleges in the nation, a low teen pregnancy rate, a political climate which encourages and respects diversity and the highest high school graduation rate in the nation. Reverse all of those statements and you have South Carolina and me standing her saying WTF?

5. Segregation.
No one believes it until they come here but the racial tension is so thick one can cut it with a knife. The first time I entered a restaurant I was overwhelmed with a feeling that something was wrong. Then I realized that there were and equal number of black people and white people and none of them were sitting together. This pattern continued as I noted churches, neighborhoods, stores, radio stations, public transportation and just about everything else.
Having just moved from a city on the West Coast I have become accustomed to races mingling. Here I could go a week and not see a single mixed race family off of our Army base.
The “Us vs Them” mentality can also be seen in the division between the haves and have-nots. The wealthy here are primarily white and they attend private schools which claim to encourage diversity but do little to promote it with limited scholarships funds and $15,000 a year tuition. The middle to lower income children are left to attend failing public schools.
The wealthy drive large SUV’s with private school bumper stickers (stickers are big here, what can I say?) and live in neighborhoods with names like “Arcadia Lakes”. They shop at Publix and Fresh Market and thankfully they stay the hell away from my Super Walmart, the only grocery store I can afford off post.

6. Southern Hospitality
No such thing. Southern Hospitality in South Carolina is really a condescencion hidden by a pretty metaphor or analogy. Bless your heart? Just give me the stank eye and be done with it.

7. The Gamecocks.
Don’t know who they are? No wonder! They haven’t won anything in perhaps their entire history. The Gamecocks are the USC football team and although they sell out the stadium it seems that the locals turn a blind eye to their suck factor in favor of self-celebratory behavior. You see the ugly chicken thing (which resembles a pig from a distance) on everything. Honestly it wouldn’t matter if they won a championship 10 years in a row: I would never wear anything that said “Game Cocks” on it outside of Columbia, SC. I guess natives don’t have to worry much about that.

Okay, so I could go on and on but I think I’ll just wrap up with the environmental aspect of South Carolina which have lead me to conclude that either God is trying to force humans out of the area or that SC is truly Hell on Earth (after all, if there’s a heaven there has to be a hell, right?).
So I’ll end by mentioning the ridiculous heat and humidity, the tornadoes and hurricanes and the cockroaches and fire ants.

When voicing my discontent with SC to natives (politely of course) it has been suggested that I leave. Oh, if only it were that easy. I try explaining that the Army has forced us to live here, but having no concept of a world outside of South Carolina, many begin following the giant SC flies with their eye balls and ignore me completely.

Incidentally I only have 18 or so months left here. Part of me expects to look in my rearview and see the entire state burst into flames as I drive away. Look, SC is a great place for some of you. I’m fine with you all acting as though it’s your own personal country with your own language and government and flag. I’m somewhat sorry your attempts to have your own country failed (except for the whole “people as slaves thing”). I think an independent state is just what you need. Can I just ask that you create your own armed forces so I don’t ever have to be stationed here again? Thanks.

 

So, he’s gotten over it. Mostly. It isn’t something we discuss despite the fact that it’s recently become the most exciting part of my day besides my Dunkin’ Donuts coffee (not available on the West Coast). About 5 months ago we moved away from my career and my friends, our cute little duplex and my little blue state full of progressive people. Since we’ve been posted to South Carolina, home of the most ignorant Americans I’ve ever met, he’s found that the slightest teasing sends me into a cryfest “but I don’t see grown ups all day! I miss my friends and you’re always at work….” In short, it ain’t worth the trouble. 
So I've sent this link to all my Myspace and Facebook friends. It's Sunday so my Myspace friends are at the park with their hundreds of kids and my Facebook friends are drinking the 'hair of the dog', but I expect comments from your cubicle/ living room computers in the morning.