Tag: Army Wife

It Must Be Love

Last night, it hit me at about 6pm that when we woke up, it would be Valentine’s Day. Well, crud.

After work, I rushed my kids over to the PX, so they could get valentines to hand out to their classmates (I briefly debated NOT going to get any, but I already fight the internal “bad mom” demons).

The number of men frantically wandering around the store was laughable. Chocolates, teddy bears, balloons, wine–nothing was safe. I unintentionally made eye contact with one man; the fear in his eyes was intense, as if I might seek out his significant other and tell her that he was frantically buying one of everything, 30 minutes before the store closes on the night before Valentine’s Day.

This morning, I took my first sip of coffee, and then said, “wow Sam. Two spoonfuls of sugar in your coffee?! What were you thinking!?” It seems I felt as though I needed something a little extra sweet on this day.

Yesterday, my boss said, “tomorrow’s a busy day. There’s a lot going on.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Time cards.”

“And??”

I drew a blank. “I don’t know–what’s tomorrow?”

“Valentine’s Day!” Oh yeah. That one.

My boss took his wife to the National Farm Machinery Show, although the truth of it is that he was taking his buddy (aka, his very adorable almost 4-year-old grandson), And she was the lady with the snacks. But in all honesty, as a man who can’t even give me a straight answer when asked, “how many tractors do you have,” being married to a woman willing to take the day off so he can admire large farm machinery, is hitting the wife jackpot.

Justin is 7,000 miles away. Also, we’ve never really done anything for Valentine’s Day. I would certainly not expect him to ever be the frantic, panicking fool at 7pm in February 13th!

He did treat me to new jewelry–it was just a matter of finding a location for it. I had industrial dreams, but alas, space is limited. I might have gone a little piercing crazy in my teens (and no, the purple lines are not permanent).

Obviously, a new piercing or two is not everyone’s idea of a Valentine’s Day dream come true. I guess this is my version of the Farm Machinery Convention. Maybe next year I can finally convince him to get matching tattoos.

Just kidding–we are not doing that.

Happy Valentine’s Day. Embrace the awkward.

Lost in Translation

I woke up this morning to a screen-shot of a conversation between Justin and the guys he works with.

“Why did [a student] tell me that he thinks [Justin] has nice breast!”

“[Another student] said that too.”

They aren’t wrong–my husband has great boobs. Or, pecs. This summer I had to explain this to Xander after he started asking, “what do I have to do to get boobs like Dad?” Oh gosh, pecs, my dear. Men call them pecs.

This also isn’t the first time that hilarity has ensued at Justin’s new(ish) job. While he tells me that most of them speak better English than he does, there are still plenty of awkward moments.

Last week, Justin shared a snippet of a review a student gave of the course. What could the instructor improve: “Makes me hard.” Hmm…

I am constantly left thinking of The Princess Bride: “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

There was also the student who wrote “I died on Friday,” which I can relate to, because it’s usually my statement after every Torture with Terry session. I. Died. I can picture at least 5 young ladies at the pool making that same statement, “OMG, I died on Friday.”

Justin, you might just have the most comical job ever.

 

 

 

Bus Driver! Bus Driver! Open the Door!

Two weeks ago, I woke up with a pounding headache. Honestly, I rarely get headaches, and when I do, they’re usually dehydration related. I am terrible about drinking enough water, especially in the winter.

I drank water, I took an Aleve, and it got a little better. But if I moved my head too fast, it came screaming back.

For the next week, I suffered through. Lots of Aleve (that did a whole lot of nothing), and lots of water (by this point, I had accepted that it wasn’t dehydration, but it couldn’t hurt). I even cut back on my workouts, because the up/down movement of a lot of exercises (deadlifts, kettle bell swings, burpees). It was mainly a stabbing shooting pain above my right eye.

Then, it was a tormenting pressure in my eye–my eyeball felt bruised! I’m not a hypochondriac, but I sure do love google searching medical ailments. Four or five articles stated that if there’s eye pressure, you should get your butt to the doctor.

Very well. Even when I called and told them my symptoms, they told me to get there as fast as I could. So, maybe I should take this headache seriously? I opted not to put my contacts in–hey, if my eye socket is about to spit my eyeball out, at least my glasses could kind of catch it, or at least stop it from rolling around on the floor of my car.

My eye stayed put, and after a bunch of tests, and a good amount of that fun yellow dye, I was told it was sinus pressure.

Well, that was anticlimactic.

I added allergy meds to the mix. Still, there was not much change.

Bus driver, bus driver, open the door!

Fast forward to Sunday. When we were kids, my Mom taught my sisters and me all kinds of fun things: pull the skin back on your face and say, “Mommy! Mommy! My ponytail’s too tight!” Pull the skin out on either side of your neck and say, “who left the knife in the peanut butter!? And last of all, smoosh your face and say, “Bus driver, bus driver, open the door!”

I have spent these last too weeks with the combo. Mom, my ponytail’s too tight, and my head is caught in the bus doors!

Self-diagnosis: round 2. Tension headaches, caused by stress. And jaw clenching at night (hence the pounding headaches in the morning).

NNOOOO!!!!! It’s not that I wanted there to be something wrong with me. I just wanted there to be something wrong with me that had a quick and easy fix. Please explain how this temporarily single mom is supposed to reduce stress!?

Then, on our way home from the pool, Shea starts in: “Tell Mom what you did.”

Xander: “No, I don’t want to.”

Me (expecting the worst, by the way, because Xander, and his nickname is often “Mr Destructo): “What did you do??”

“He peed in the trash can!!!…in the gym!!!”

Now Xander is ready to chime back in: “No no! It was in the bathroom!”

Ah yes, because that makes it better.

As we drove back to the pool, so that my son could take the bag o’ pee out to the dumpster, I thought, “hmm. I can’t imagine why I’ve had a never-ending stress headache!”

What’s in a Name

Last night, while Xander was sitting on the couch with me, he asked, “how do you spell my middle name?”

I-s-s-h-a-k

“I…s…s…wait, spell it again.”

I-s-s-h-a-k

This morning on the way to school he asked again. “Mom, spell my middle name again, I forgot.”

I-s-s-h-a-k.

“I-s-s-h-a-k. Ok. I remember now–that’s not how my friend Issac spells his name.”

I guess there is no time like the present to try and explain this one.

Your name is special. Dad had an awesome friend, and that was his name.

“He had a friend named Isshak? But they aren’t friends anymore?”

Ok, how do you explain this to a 7-year-old…

Daniel Isshak, KIA 3Oct2006

I met Daniel Isshak in December, 2004, on my first visit to Fort Benning, to see Justin. We had talked on the phone about a million times before that (I had talked on the phone to all of Justin’s friends–when you spend 2 hours a day talking on the phone with someone, you end up talking to a lot of random people along the way). Justin had picked me up at the airport and brought me to stay with a couple of his friends–Dan lived there, and was smoking outside when we showed up. I whined, “it’s Georgia! I thought it was supposed to be warm here.” Isshak laughed. His laugh was enough to make anyone and everyone around him laugh.

Over lots of other visits down to see Justin, I got to spend more time with Danny Isshak. There was a morning when Justin left for PT (and I was staying in the barracks–shh). A little while later, I heard the door open, and I watched a man who looked very  much like Justin (it was dark; I didn’t have my glasses on), walk in, crawled into the bed on the other side of the room, and went to sleep. I laid there thinking, “why in the world would Justin not be crawling into his own bed with me?” But it was too early for my 22 year old butt to give it much thought, so I went back to sleep. A while later, the man I thought was Justin got back out of bed, and on his way out the door said, “I drank all of the orange juice–don’t tell them it was me.” It was Isshak.

At the first Ranger Ball I went to, Dan was there, being goofy and silly as usual. At that point, a bunch of Justin’s buddies were getting ready to PCS to Hawaii. He talked a lot about getting a new car as soon as he got there.

By the time I moved down to Georgia, in October of 2005, they had all PCSed and were living it up in Hawaii. I would ask Justin if he was bummed he didn’t also go. They all still talked on the phone quite a bit, and honestly, there’s always the hope that someday the Army will bring you back together.

Of course, then on October 5th, 2006, Justin called me while I was at work. Isshak had been shot in Iraq. He died.

How could this be!? It’s not possible. There must be some mistake. He was so young! It’s not possible. It’s not fair.

Daniel Isshak was the first person I knew personally, who died in war. Thankfully (knock on wood), he is also the only one. When we were deciding on names, it had already been determined that our firstborn would be named Shea (after another soldier, one I didn’t know, but who Justin had). Two years later, when we found out we were having a boy, we struggled to decide on a name. There were already a handful of Daniels in Justin’s family, and could we name our son Isshak, pronounced like Issac? A lifetime of people mispronouncing it: “Ish-ack?” It was quickly decided that Isshak worked better as a middle name.

So, my child, your namesake was a character, much like you are. He was ridiculous, and funny, and a troublemaker. Much like you are. Your name is special.

Talk Dirty To Me

I’m going to tell you a secret: every military couple has sent each other something risqué at some point in their relationship. During WWII, it was probably something along the lines of a sexy photo, and a saucy letter to go along with it. In 2018, we have smartphones!

This isn’t for the faint-of-heart–or my mother. Sorry Mom.

The downside of today’s ability to sext, is the ability to accidentally sext the wrong person. Up until yesterday, it had only been my biggest fear. Send something scandalous to Justin; check 47 times to make sure I actually sent it to Justin, and not my Mom (sorry Mom)!

Nearly 13 years of inappropriate, NC-17 text messages being sent to my husband while he’s been in war zones, or TDY, or now stationed in Korea. And then, while multi-tasking yesterday morning, I texted a co-worker to let him know I couldn’t teach Water Aerobics, because Shea had a doctor’s appointment at that time.

Two minutes later, I texted Justin, telling him I looked fat.

Then I sent a couple of wildly inappropriate texts, that shall not be repeated at this time (or at any time–sorry Mom).

Then another few minutes went by and I wondered why Justin hadn’t responded.

Then, the “oh shit” moment, where I whisper, “please tell me I didn’t send that to….oh my gosh, I did.”

After telling my co-worker I was looking fat yesterday, I proceeded to send him dirty, dirty text messages!!!

Where’s the undo button when you need one!?

Then, out come the outpouring of apologies, as I try to explain to him what happened. Yes, him. Ending with, “I can’t come to work today. There’s a hole I have to crawl into and die.”

I told Justin, all while freaking out. Because, who does that!?!? His response: “no way,” and then he told me he thought it was funny.

Funny?! He obviously didn’t have to spend a day at work with a guy he’d just awkwardly sexted, and then apologized to!!!

15 minutes later when I got to work, we laughed about it. And in my state of total embarrassment, I offered to teach Water Aerobics for him for the rest of eternity.

“Justin said, ‘it could’ve been worse.'”

“I don’t know Sam, that was pretty bad.”

I bet no Army Wife in 1945 thought, “gosh, I hope I didn’t send that to the wrong guy.”