Category: Strong Women

Holiday in Covid-19

Here in Alabama, we are 2 days into spring break. So far, we have…..we have…..we….um….

Ok, we haven’t done anything. I’ve been putting an hour of work into getting my vegetable garden started, so that if we make it to May, our little 18×23 Liberty Garden, Corona-Edition, will keep us fed. Here’s hoping we fare better than last year.

My gardening skills sort of come and go. Some years were super successful, while others were not so great.

Last year was one of those “not so great” years. As the first gardening season in Alabama, I had tremendously high hopes. I had a 3 season plan that would keep us in veggies from February through November. There were just a few issues.

The sad and lonely, gardenless arbor.

The first being, our Tigger-like pup, Emma, loves to help. She digs a mean hole, and is a professional at weed pulling. Of course, she doesn’t know the difference between a week and an actual plant, so everything gets yanked out, thrown around, and murdered by her. It’s so helpful. I bought some wire fence, some metal fence posts, and a gated arbor, to keep the garden monster out. I then spent a solid 3 months putting up the fence, the arbor, and digging out the grass.

The next issue was that I procrastinated like the true, Professional Procrastinator that I am. Once the garden was planted, I also noticed these little baby plants coming up in tidy little rows. I told Justin that we should wait and see (worst plan for any situation), because maybe they’re something.

Third, I took our kids to NY for a few weeks, and left my husband (who is often at work 16 hours a day, and sometimes as much as 40 hours straight) in charge of taking care of it. I came home to Jurassic Garden. At which point, not only was the entire space overrun with WILD MORNING GLORIES, but my little “Let’s see what these turn out to be” plants were really looking a lot like peanut plants. After 2 weeks of de-wild-morning-glorying the space, I decide to take inspiration from Jimmy Carter and become a peanut farmer……

…..Of course then it ended up my peanut plants were really some kind of weed that only looks peanutish, but is in fact a whole lot of nothing. Jimmy, I failed you.

My garden produced a solid 2 cucumbers. Which, in a space of 414sqft, is sad. I vowed that 2020 would be better than 2019.

February came and went. Every day I told myself that today would be the day I started this garden. Ok, maybe tomorrow. Ok, maybe Monday.

Then the world started freaking out and buying up meat and toilet paper. Nothing like a little Pandemic Panic to Prompt Produce Production. Let the planting begin!

Today is day 4 of my Garden jumpstart frenzy. I have just under 1/2 of the garden planted. According to my fancy Alabama Garden App (it’s a thing, don’t be jealous that you don’t live near a major agricultural university. We can’t all be this rural), I should start having vegetables by the beginning of May.

In the meantime, I guess it’s back to honing my “gathering” skills. Which, aren’t great. Justin told me he doesn’t think my giant dandelion plants are actually dandelions, so I should probably halt all attempts at feeding my family weeds. And since I’ve never shot a gun (don’t gasp. Just because I’m married to a gun-owning soldier does not mean I care to have anything to do with them myself), the hunting portion of this Covid Apocalypse is going to have to go on the back burner–where it will stay until the Zombie Apocalypse, at which time I suppose knowing how to shoot a gun will be a necessity.

As for the rest of spring break? Well, I’ve taken my usual social distancing and really kicked it right up into homebound recluse status. Are we almost out of juice? Yes. Have I decided that they can wait 2-4 months for our garden to start producing and then we can enjoy some fresh-squeezed tomato juice? Also yes. Pandemic Paranoia is Prominent.

It’s the Final Countdown

Justin has been gone 368 days. In this past year, I have done some crazy things, and learned so much about me.

I decided that being a Temporary Single Mom wasn’t enough of a challenge, so I upped the ante and took a full time job as well. Single Working Moms everywhere deserve so much recognition, especially those Moms who live far away from family or any support system. It is hard. It is lonely. At times, it seemed impossible. My last day of work came 2 weeks ago, and while it was bittersweet, I can look back at this year and be proud that I didn’t drown in an overwhelming avalanche of stress. What doesn’t kill you really does make you stronger.

I learned that you can’t put yourself last. No matter how many millions of items might be on your list, putting yourself on the back burner does not help anything. This lesson was learned late in my year–I really only embraced this one sometime around the middle of July. The world might weigh me down, but an hour a day throwing heavy weights around is better than any session with a therapist…but, it might also help that Terry the Torturer is basically my therapist.

People will try to sympathize with you, but there are only a handful of people who know what you’re going through. No, your husband’s weeklong work trip does not compare. It’s true, the sympathetic comparisons this go-around were much less stinging than they were when he was deployed. Every military spouse who has been unwillingly separated from their love has been there, listening to friends who can’t imagine how terrifying it is to know your love is somewhere dangerous, saying things like, “I totally know how you feel! One time, my husband went to California for a week, and it was awful.” While I’m sure it was awful, I doubt you also had to worry about the terrifying reality that you might not see him again.

This time, I realized that people didn’t quite understand my nonchalant attitude. When you said, “oh gosh, that must be so hard,” and I responded by telling  you it really wasn’t, that wasn’t me telling you that it’s easy for me to be 7000 miles away from my husband for a year–it was me telling you that I don’t have to spend the next year panicking every time the doorbell rings. When you’ve survived a 15 month deployment, 12 months overseas and not in a war zone, is easy breezy.

I also found comfort in a surprising location: the women who participated in my aquacise class. These Army Wives of yore are the real deal. My generation of Military Spouse often forget that we aren’t the first. “My husband was in Korea, but back then, there was a war going on.” And there was no FaceTime, no texting, no phone calls. 60 years ago, you waited in hopes of receiving a letter from your love. In comparison, a year apart in 2018 is a cakewalk.

In less than 48 hours, my world will be back to normal. My best friend will be home, and I’ll get to torment him in person again.

I’m a lot stronger than I thought I was; I survived.

I’m Sam Steeves, and I Speak for the Bees

…except sweat bees. They are the douchebags of the bee community.

An entire bee community, plagued by little guy syndrome.

I’m trying to be productive on my Mostly Day Off. I finally finished mowing my lawn, since my previous attempt was rained out, and prior to that, it had been…ok, so maybe some of it was knee high.

It happens.

In Kentucky.

Where it rained for a week straight. And I work too much. And my whole Coming Off Antidepressants has lead to a lot of couch slothing.

But yeah, it happens.

Besides, Justin isn’t here to judge me, so I can do what I want!

I mean…until housing leaves a note on my door that my back yard is not zoned as a Natural Zone, and I need to get my crappy together and mow that jungle.

I should get a job with the housing office–I could really bring a new voice to their “friendly reminders.”

Ok, so I googled it. And they don’t mean to be assholes.

Sorry sweat bee. I didn’t mean to scare you into stinging me when I squatted down and accidentally trapped you between my thigh and calf. It was an honest mistake.

In their defense, I’m a very sweaty girl. I’d probably hang out on me too, if I was attracted to sweat.

I’m irresistible.

To bees.

I’m irresistible to sweat bees. Get back to pollinating. I won’t squish any of your friends.

Don’t Tell Me to Stop

So, my blood pressure has been astronomically high since…honestly, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but back in February, my dentist pointed out how dangerously high it was. I take nothing seriously, so at the time I said “ok. I’ll look into it.” A few weeks later when I went back to get a few broken fillings replaced (nighttime Sam has spent over 3 decades sabotaging her smile with grinding), the dentist informed me that my blood pressure was so high, she would only do work on me if I got nitrous. Which was strangely like being drunk at the dentist (honestly, I slept through my dental work). She once again asked me to please see my doctor.

Meh.

Well, here we are, 4 months later. It’s still high in the sky, and I still rarely take these things seriously. Until my doctor last week (during a completely unrelated appointment) said, “I want you to stop taking your antidepressants.”

Umexcusemewhat??

Deer in headlights.

“How long have you been on the Effexor?”

“Um…4 years?”

“And how long has your blood pressure been high?”

“Um…”

“4 years?”

After coming out of the haze of the initial shock, I agreed that I have felt lately like it wasn’t working. But I had mostly chalked that up to other issues: my husband is on the other side of the Earth, I am a year into the full time working mom gig, 9 months into my single working mom stint. I’m a serious introvert, with a lack of a local support system. I am terrible at multi-tasking. And I inherited my Mom’s overactive tear glands.

But really, I get too overwhelmed. And if I cry any more, I might dry out and turn to dust.

I guess. I don’t know. Just when I start thinking, “maybe this week I won’t cry at work,” I have a nervous breakdown in a parking lot over a dented bumper.

So, in order to address my super-high-for-unknown-reasons blood pressure, I have to be unmedicated. For the first time since…shortly after Xander was born. That, to me, is scarier than any blood pressure, heart issue, scare.

I have dealt with/suffered from depression since I was……9? 5? Always? It’s hard to say. Meds have come and gone, and none will ever make me “normal,” but they sure do keep me from shattering plates on the floor because Justin paused too long before telling me what he wanted to drink with dinner (can we talk about the hero of this story for a minute? Because the partners of us mentally unstable squirrels are by far the most under-appreciated at times. And mine has put up with a lot in 13 years, and still sticks around to help keep me sane).

Also, the unmedicated, barely-functioning depression I suffered through while pregnant with Shea (while Justin was deployed), springs to mind. I could be a non-functioning blob before kids–that is not really a state I can enter into while having to be responsible for tiny humans.

I am officially one week into the process of slowly cutting back (so as not to be launched into the head pounding, nightmare-inducing, vertigo causing, withdrawal that this particular medication is known to cause…in me…after one missed dose). I’m still overwhelmed. I still cried today at work (literally because I was told I had to call the help-desk to sort out an employee’s timecard. And then I couldn’t find the number. And then my phone cut out. And then…tears). My blood pressure is still high.

Deep. Breath.

Stay positive.

You can do this.