Simple

Last year we jumped off our deployment cliff.

Now 4-10 soldiers (4th Brigade 10th Mountain Division)  are coming home.

Thousands of them.

I get a big stupid smile on my face every time I hear that a friend's husband has come home. That kids are hugging their moms or dads for the first time in months and months and months. That mothers who waited for so long, can cup their grown son's or daughter's face. Kiss their cheeks. Feed them and try to make up for lost time in calories. That fathers can shake hands and say things like, "I'm proud of you son" or "I knew my daughter would do well." That spouses can hold the one who left that cold, empty place in bed.  That the ones with children of their own can feel those precious little bodies against their hearts. Feel the whispers of, "I missed you dad " against their necks. Wrestle with their offspring on the floor. Learn the names of dolls. See pictures that were drawn just for them. Enjoy the presence of the people who matter most.

-

Some Fort Polk soldiers have headed out for deployments elsewhere.

Some families are being made complete.

Some have just separated.

-

Not all soldiers made it home.

Some families will never be complete again.

I hope they know they aren't forgotten.

-

Soldiers changed.

Some grew into someone they don't recognize;

were revealed for who they've always been...good or bad;

learned compassion, patience, loyalty, and forgiveness;
failed in ways they could not fathom;
accomplished what they didn't think they could;

 refused to become what they hate; 

 made it home by the skin of their teeth.

 Weariness. Trauma. Sadness. Temptations. Wounds. Fear. Hopelessness. Mistakes. Mind-numbing boredom. Infidelity. Pain. Stress that consumes every pore. Insomnia.  Illness. Loss. Depression. Rage with no viable focus. Enemies with no face. Loneliness with no easy remedy. Bone-tired body with no fuzzy slippers in sight.

 Whatever it was.

-
Some changes are good.

Some people learned there are more important things than him remembering to pick up his socks;
that whether or not you agree on everything in life-- you have a partner who sincerely loves you and wants to help make life better;
that you want to make his life better, too;
that to have him lie next to you in bed and hear his steady breathing is worth more than anything;
that the stress that was stress before seems like a walk in the park today;
that he wants to spend more time playing with his children;
that being "alone" for a year forced you to see that being "alone" would be a choice and not a reality, because your life was overflowing with people willing to walk with you;
that maybe we don't get second chances;
that life is finite, and opportunities to fill it with good are not always handed to you on a silver platter;
that sometimes they are handed to you on a silver platter and you should always keep a watchful eye;
that you might have to fight with everything in you to live the life you want to live;
that you should never stop fighting for that;
that you have been given opportunities to love --not just your family, but the people you meet every day--  and you hope you don't squander them;

some changes are good.

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Life is complicated.

And simple.

Happy Birthday

Because I still can't believe he's mine.

Because I'm thankful for his friendship these past eleven years.

Because he had my heart the first time he pushed me down in the snow. The first time I heard him call his mother. The first time he met my family and was left for dead with all my brothers and sisters. The first time he laid those stolen tulips on my parent's doorstep when I had cold feet...

Doggedly loyal.

Idiosyncratically intelligent.

Funny. Loud.

Fiercely in love with his children.

Makes his wife feel like a supermodel.

Because I know his parents would be exploding with pride
 at who their son has become.

Just like we are.

Because he never gave up on me.

Because he has anchored his family to something bigger than who we are today.
Because he dreams big dreams with me.

Because he didn't let others determine his path.

Because I'm so thankful for the day he was born,

I wanna say,

Happy Birthday Jason.

We love you and can't wait for you to come home~

                                                                                                                                         

When something comes out of a chicken's butt...

You might think this is a blog about adoption.

Or about military life.

Or homeschool things.

Marriage. 

Children.
Truth is, I don't even know.

This morning I woke up to what I usually wake up to. 

Probably similar to what a lot of moms and dads wake up to across the planet.

Grant was yelling at someone to give back a toy that was his. 

Then the pad, pad, pad of his feet running down the hallway to tattle. 

Then the questions that come every morning. 

The questions that I've never once, not once said, "yes" to, but still he asks. 

"Mom, can I have a popsicle for breakfast?" 

"No." 

"Okay, can I watch a movie?" 

"No, not until after breakfast, and chores." 

*whine* *wail* *waah*

Then Reagan came in doing the potty dance, and I yelled at Kennedy to take her potty. Uh. I mean, I was a responsible parent and got out of bed to take her potty. Then I climbed back into my bed to enjoy its king-sized goodness. Goodness that just 30 minutes before, was filled with sweaty, snoring children. I tried to add up the hours of sleep I had accumulated during the night, but that just made me depressed. Legs cramps. Nightmares. Children are such complicated beings.

I figured it might be a rough Saturday.

 I managed to get out of that soft haven and step out into morning time with deranged children. I'm not really sure why I can't stay in bed all day; because that's just what I'd like to do. Something in the pit of my stomach says that that would be slovenly and wrong. 

 I took one look at their tired, bickering faces, and decided to step outside to, "check on the chickens."

That's what I say when I'd really like to go on a walk or sit on my porch swing and stare into nothing. The problem is, I think it's a questionable practice to leave your children alone in the house while, "you go for a walk."  When I sit on my porch swing, the children seem to think that that's an invitation for them to join me. When I have shooed them away, they press their smudgy little faces against the glass of our back door, and stare at me in a way that both seeps the enjoyment out of my bones, and makes me laugh.

So, I check on chickens.

I walked out to the chicken coop. After I stepped into the pen, those birds gathered around and eyed my sandaled toes  hungrily. I thought they must be starving to look at my feet like that. But after checking their food supply, I discovered that they were just being mean. This hurt my feelings. Since I am the one who gave them life, put up with their stinky little bodies while they were babies, and cleaned out their poop when it became overpowering in its smell.

For 10 days we have not had a single egg. It's been on my mind night and day. Day and night. What could make them stop laying? What varmint could be sneaking away those eggs? 

I made a little cardboard house of death. One that the chickens could not get into, and I put out some poison. I hoped that if my problem was a rat,  it would go to heaven and my golden eggs could again be found.

Five days went by. Still no eggs.

Today, I lifted the lid to the nest box...and VOILA!

An egg.

And that is all there is to this post.

I found an egg today.

And that makes me very happy.

"I'm the one on the left."

      

"Toes. "

"Sometimes something coming out of a chicken's butt can make even the worst mornings great."

Moments such as these...

Sometimes...

After we've gotten up at the butt-crack of dawn...

When I've helped with homework, made five breakfasts, prayed and sent three kids off to school...

After I've taken a 22-month-old in for a chicken pox vaccine and then waited for THREE hours at the hospital while coordinating hospital records and preventing tag-a-long three-year-old from setting off the fire alarm,  TWICE...

When I've then gone and registered said 22-month-old with CYS (Child and Youth Services), signed a second and third grader up for baseball, looked at toys at the PX with 3-year-old, made it home just in time for naps and breakdowns...

When I spent said naps talking on the phone with banks and hospital records departments...

Picked up kids from school, helped with homework, taken five kids to McDonald's for sundaes to celebrate good grades, gone to church, and finally loaded children back into the van...

 Amidst:

"Shot gun!" 

"No, I called it!" 

"Mo-om! He hit me!"

"Why do I have to sit next to her?!"

"Can I watch Superman when I get home?"

"Can I have a snack when I get home?"

When that last buckle is clicked.

When the last of the four van doors has slammed shut.

Drowning out the sound of my precious cargo inside.

That precious. 

Precious cargo.
 

When I feel the cool night's breeze. 

When I hear the cicadas whirring and taunting me with their freedom.

Sometimes.

Some days.

In teeny moments of exhaustion.

As that last door slams.

My mind screams...

RUN!

(I like to imagine a crazy hillbilly laughing maniacally while running through a cornfield.)