October 31, 2010
I've officially been given Sarge's blessing to open my fat mouth all over my blog regarding my pity party from a couple days ago.
Short version- Sarge has been diagnosed with multifocal Clinically Isolated Syndrome, which is a precursor to multiple sclerosis.
Long version- (Make your suuuuuuuure you wanna claw your way through this)
About a week or so into SERE school, Sarge almost completely lost his vision in his right eye. He soldiered through, assuming it was related to the hardships of the school itself. After he returned home, he still had almost no vision in that eye. He eventually wound up seeing a neurologist who diagnosed him with something called optic neuritis. In basic terms, it is simply inflammation of the optic nerve. It can be caused by many things, the most common of which is multiple sclerosis. Because of this, the neurologist did a brain MRI looking for the classic white matter lesions also indicative of multiple sclerosis, which he indeed found. In fact, he found at least 7 white matter lesions in various parts of Sarge's brain. I saw them. They are there. Now, white matter lesions alone can be caused by many things, but the neurologist was fairly certain these were signature demyelinating lesions. Meaning, these were not caused by scar tissue from previous injuries, aging, or anything else. They were caused by a demyelinating disease, the same demyelinating disease that caused his optic neuritis. In short, it was his opinion that the optic neuritis and white matter lesions were directly related. So now we're looking at 2 very common symptoms of multiple sclerosis happening in tandem. I looked directly in the doctor's eyes and asked him "What is the most common cause of optic neuritis AND white matter brain lesions?" His answer? Multiple sclerosis. I just wanted to hear him say it and not beat around the bush with me. I'm not stupid. I'm a realist, almost to a fault.
Using a simple analogy of an electric cord, multiple sclerosis is a disease which progressively wears away the myelin sheath (or the rubber part of the electric cord) of the patient's nerve fibers. There are several different types, the most common of which is relapsing/remitting, meaning the patient might have an episode (or attack) and then go into remission for months or years before having another one. In the beginning, your body's immune system is capable of repairing itself between attacks, but eventually becomes unable to repair itself completely. Hence, the progression of the disease toward eventual debility, chronic pain, and a myriad of other symptoms depending on which part of your body is affected by the disease. Everyone's disease course is different.
At the moment, we are waiting on the results of blood tests and cerebrospinal fluid. Watching your husband get a spinal tap is just.....well.....the worst. Specifically, the blood tests should show any other cause for his symptoms. The cerebrospinal fluid is being tested for something called oligoclonal bands, which are frequently present in patients with multiple sclerosis. The cruel ambiguity of the situation lies in the fact that the oligoclonal bands don't necessarily HAVE to be present for him to indeed have multiple sclerosis, nor do the presence of oligoclonal bands definitely confirm the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. However, oligoclonal bands PLUS optic neuritis PLUS white matter lesions equals.....well....we're pretty much fucked.
Essentially, the neurologist is waiting to see whether or not Sarge has another episode or attack of symptoms consistent with multiple sclerosis before definitively diagnosing him with MS. Until then, he stays in the Clinically Isolated Syndrome category. What does this mean? It means he might have another attack next week, or next month, or next year.......or never. It means......I'm emotionally drained.
I've pitched my fit and had my cry fest. I got all the emotion out and tried to focus on the nuts and bolts of the situation. That's where I'm more comfortable. Just gimme the facts. I'll deal with the mental breakdown later. Physically, he's doing fine. He had a rough couple of weeks after returning from his school, but I've tried to make sure he's eating right and eating enough. His sight is returning very, very slowly. His doctors are predicting it might be another 6 weeks or so before his vision is back to 100%. The sheath covering his optic nerve is very thin (the very definition of multiple sclerosis or a "demyelinating disease"), which means this will probably happen again.
I've thought of all the corny motivational cliches ever uttered. You know, takin' it one day at a time....living like there's no tomorrow....don't worry about what you can't change.....blah, blah, blah. I'm actually doing a lot better than I was initially. We're just doing what we normally do- making really inappropriate jokes about his possible affliction and my uncertain future of man-diaper changing and drool-wiping. We even went as nurse and patient to his company Halloween party, complete with an eye patch, johnny gown, and cane. Considering everyone at work knows about it, it was pretty damn funny.
Clearly, I've done my homework. I've seen the MRI, speckled with white dots, and an optic nerve that looks like a blown fuse. I'm not ignorant about the possibilities. I'm not the kind of person who leans on vague concepts like "hope" and "faith," but more on the black and white reality of truth. The truth is that my husband, my best friend of 16 years, the father of my children, a person I would lay down my life for, probably has multiple sclerosis. There are also other truths. He may never have another episode again. He may have another episode tomorrow. He may have secondary progressive MS, the scariest truth of all. Our children are now 3 times more likely to develop MS.
He may never have another episode again.
He may never have another episode again.
As long as he doesn't, that's the truth I'm leaning on.
Plus, he just bought me a Wii and the Wii Fit board with only the SWEETEST.CARD.EVER......so he's forgiven for being a broke dick for now.
October 31, 2010
October 30, 2010
Super Short Story Saturday!
October 30, 2010
When my sisters and I were little, and living at my grandmother's house, we used to make a game of tossing the dirty laundry down the stairs and trying to ring the antlers of the deer head hanging on the overhang of the staircase. Invariably, we'd end up getting our panties stuck on the antlers and, being naught but a couple of feet off the ground ourselves, required the assistance of the broom stick to commandeer our underpants. So there we were, 3 tiny girls standing in the middle of the staircase, reaching up with the broomstick as far as our chubby little arms would go, attempting to retrieve our dirty knickers before gramma caught us. I'm not sure if gramma ever really cared too much, but Momma was always peeking from around the corner trying not to disturb us with her snickering.
-The End-
When my sisters and I were little, and living at my grandmother's house, we used to make a game of tossing the dirty laundry down the stairs and trying to ring the antlers of the deer head hanging on the overhang of the staircase. Invariably, we'd end up getting our panties stuck on the antlers and, being naught but a couple of feet off the ground ourselves, required the assistance of the broom stick to commandeer our underpants. So there we were, 3 tiny girls standing in the middle of the staircase, reaching up with the broomstick as far as our chubby little arms would go, attempting to retrieve our dirty knickers before gramma caught us. I'm not sure if gramma ever really cared too much, but Momma was always peeking from around the corner trying not to disturb us with her snickering.
-The End-
October 29, 2010
Top Five- Army Halloween Parties
October 29, 2010
5. The reason why I have no Army social circle-
Army Wife- "blah, blah, blah, blah.....SIX BABIES....blah, blah, blah....BROKE....blah, blah, blah.....MORE BABIES......blah, blah, blah.....COMMISSARY.....blah, blah, blah......PREGNANT....."
Me- "Ummm.....I'm cold....."
"No, I don't have any babies."
"No, I don't know anything about on-post daycare, my oldest is 3 years away from being old enough to do your husband's job."
"I'm cold....."
4. They're never required, but it's HIGHLY recommended that you show up.....and bring something.
3. If you're husband holds any type of leadership position, don't even THINK about sneaking out early.
2. "Yes, I was nice enough to host this at my house, but my 4 kids are asleep inside, so don't you dare set foot in there! What, you have to pee? Dig a hole. What, you're cold? Man up."
1. .................Drumroll please................
FISHNET STOCKINGS AND CORSETS! Oh yes! YES! Clearly, she's a lady on the street but a freak in da bed. There's always one. Tonight, I counted three. It almost makes the cold BBQ sandwiches, cole slaw made from baby vomit and 30-degree weather worth it. Almost.
5. The reason why I have no Army social circle-
Army Wife- "blah, blah, blah, blah.....SIX BABIES....blah, blah, blah....BROKE....blah, blah, blah.....MORE BABIES......blah, blah, blah.....COMMISSARY.....blah, blah, blah......PREGNANT....."
Me- "Ummm.....I'm cold....."
"No, I don't have any babies."
"No, I don't know anything about on-post daycare, my oldest is 3 years away from being old enough to do your husband's job."
"I'm cold....."
4. They're never required, but it's HIGHLY recommended that you show up.....and bring something.
3. If you're husband holds any type of leadership position, don't even THINK about sneaking out early.
2. "Yes, I was nice enough to host this at my house, but my 4 kids are asleep inside, so don't you dare set foot in there! What, you have to pee? Dig a hole. What, you're cold? Man up."
1. .................Drumroll please................
FISHNET STOCKINGS AND CORSETS! Oh yes! YES! Clearly, she's a lady on the street but a freak in da bed. There's always one. Tonight, I counted three. It almost makes the cold BBQ sandwiches, cole slaw made from baby vomit and 30-degree weather worth it. Almost.
October 24, 2010
A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Tomorrow.
October 24, 2010
What does a woman do when faced with a possible threat to her perfect, meticulously-crafted life? Evidently, she stops posting on her blog. She turns inward in the worst possible way while outwardly joking about the worst possible outcome. She cries a little, but her body doesn't really make many tears. So, she frets. Her skin breaks out. She tries to continue her normal routines....waiting....waiting...waiting for an answer, an answer she knows won't yield an absolution. She comes to the realization that, even with the best possible outcome at present, this will forever loom over her happy little family. She turns to the internet and learns all she possibly can about the situation. And she realizes this is something she cannot fix. She cannot control. She cannot make better. And she feels guilty about all of this because, for all intents and purposes, the brunt of the situation is not happening to her body, but that of someone she would give her life for, but giving her life won't even help this.
She becomes irrationally territorial and rabidly possessive of her space, her time, her heart, her body, her babies, her Sarge, her world.
She remembers all the times she asked herself when the rug was going to be pulled out from under her and realizes this might be that time. She tries to balance the panic with the knowledge that the situation is almost certainly not terminal. Scary, life-altering, intrusive, sad.....but not terminal.
She attempts to arrive at a place in her mind in which she reconciles the fear and sadness and the unknown with the tangible, the known, the unchanged, and the unchangeable.
The initial terror and despondency wane a bit. She knows people count on her every day, count on her to be present in mind and body, count on her to keep the raft afloat. She knows she's strong enough for this. She was strong enough for much worse at an age when no little girl should have to be. She knows Sarge is strong enough for this because he is a superhero after all.
Clearly, she writes vague blog posts because she isn't ready to spill all the nasty details until she actually knows the nasty details. It isn't in an effort to seem pretentiously mysterious, but more in an effort to craft a Band-Aid of words. Because Band-Aids always make it better....until they fall off in the shower.
She will continue, her aura forged into an impenetrable brick shithouse she dares anyone to infiltrate at the moment. She didn't punch the bitch in Wal-Mart who couldn't decide which peanut butter to buy. She didn't throw her frosty at the Wendy's employee who didn't put enough cookie dough in it. She wanted to. She really did. But Sarge and the boys need more than that. And she knows she is more than that. She has to be more than that. Because this isn't happening to her body, although she'd bear it for him without a second thought.
So, revel in the silliness that is everyday. The inconsequential. Daily comings and goings of your well-manicured world. All the little things that never really give you pause for a moment of clarity, but rather that you've come to expect as well-deserved rewards for "being a good person" or "making the right decisions." I wouldn't wish on anyone the reality that randomness is without discrimination, the reality that the air that is in your lungs at this moment is just that- air. Nothing more.
Please be happy.
What does a woman do when faced with a possible threat to her perfect, meticulously-crafted life? Evidently, she stops posting on her blog. She turns inward in the worst possible way while outwardly joking about the worst possible outcome. She cries a little, but her body doesn't really make many tears. So, she frets. Her skin breaks out. She tries to continue her normal routines....waiting....waiting...waiting for an answer, an answer she knows won't yield an absolution. She comes to the realization that, even with the best possible outcome at present, this will forever loom over her happy little family. She turns to the internet and learns all she possibly can about the situation. And she realizes this is something she cannot fix. She cannot control. She cannot make better. And she feels guilty about all of this because, for all intents and purposes, the brunt of the situation is not happening to her body, but that of someone she would give her life for, but giving her life won't even help this.
She becomes irrationally territorial and rabidly possessive of her space, her time, her heart, her body, her babies, her Sarge, her world.
She remembers all the times she asked herself when the rug was going to be pulled out from under her and realizes this might be that time. She tries to balance the panic with the knowledge that the situation is almost certainly not terminal. Scary, life-altering, intrusive, sad.....but not terminal.
She attempts to arrive at a place in her mind in which she reconciles the fear and sadness and the unknown with the tangible, the known, the unchanged, and the unchangeable.
The initial terror and despondency wane a bit. She knows people count on her every day, count on her to be present in mind and body, count on her to keep the raft afloat. She knows she's strong enough for this. She was strong enough for much worse at an age when no little girl should have to be. She knows Sarge is strong enough for this because he is a superhero after all.
Clearly, she writes vague blog posts because she isn't ready to spill all the nasty details until she actually knows the nasty details. It isn't in an effort to seem pretentiously mysterious, but more in an effort to craft a Band-Aid of words. Because Band-Aids always make it better....until they fall off in the shower.
She will continue, her aura forged into an impenetrable brick shithouse she dares anyone to infiltrate at the moment. She didn't punch the bitch in Wal-Mart who couldn't decide which peanut butter to buy. She didn't throw her frosty at the Wendy's employee who didn't put enough cookie dough in it. She wanted to. She really did. But Sarge and the boys need more than that. And she knows she is more than that. She has to be more than that. Because this isn't happening to her body, although she'd bear it for him without a second thought.
So, revel in the silliness that is everyday. The inconsequential. Daily comings and goings of your well-manicured world. All the little things that never really give you pause for a moment of clarity, but rather that you've come to expect as well-deserved rewards for "being a good person" or "making the right decisions." I wouldn't wish on anyone the reality that randomness is without discrimination, the reality that the air that is in your lungs at this moment is just that- air. Nothing more.
Please be happy.
October 13, 2010
This Is Totally Not a Picture of My Boob
October 13, 2010
Okay, it totally is.
I was going to name this post "Sarge Went to SERE And All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt," but then I wondered, would I rather......um......do what he was doing?
Because I can't say what he was doing. Because I got a special "memo." And it said that if I blabbed about all the top-secret Army things, they (meaning "they") would kill me in my sleep, dismember my corpse, feed my dead flesh to their top-secret, Rage-virus-injected monkeys, and erase my very existence from.....um....their existence database.
So, my lips are sealed.
But he is home and safe from all the badness. I cringe when I hear the stories. He cringes if I move too fast.
I was not very happy with the thought of someone mistreating the father of my children. He was not very happy being mistreated.
But he has a strange glow about him now. I think I know why. It's cute.
And his eyes sure have been quite watery of late. But first sergeants don't cry. Except when they watch The Time Traveler's Wife and My Sister's Keeper. Then, first sergeants wail like babies. Which is why I refuse to watch those kinds of movies. Even when he tries to trick me into watching them. Because bitches don't cry. Except when someone mistreats the father of her children.
So, I will add this to the ever-growing bank of deployments and TDYs. I think I have a T-shirt for every single one of them.
One day, I will buy him a T-shirt that says "My wife painted the house and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."
He'd probably wear it. Especially if it was pink. Because superheros are secure enough in their manhood to rock pink T-shirts with the word "wife" on them.
Thank you, Mr. Fletcher, for teaching me about stream-of-consciousness writing. I have now wasted 20 minutes of my life and the lives of anyone who reads this.
The End.
I was going to name this post "Sarge Went to SERE And All I Got Was This Lousy T-shirt," but then I wondered, would I rather......um......do what he was doing?
Because I can't say what he was doing. Because I got a special "memo." And it said that if I blabbed about all the top-secret Army things, they (meaning "they") would kill me in my sleep, dismember my corpse, feed my dead flesh to their top-secret, Rage-virus-injected monkeys, and erase my very existence from.....um....their existence database.
So, my lips are sealed.
But he is home and safe from all the badness. I cringe when I hear the stories. He cringes if I move too fast.
I was not very happy with the thought of someone mistreating the father of my children. He was not very happy being mistreated.
But he has a strange glow about him now. I think I know why. It's cute.
And his eyes sure have been quite watery of late. But first sergeants don't cry. Except when they watch The Time Traveler's Wife and My Sister's Keeper. Then, first sergeants wail like babies. Which is why I refuse to watch those kinds of movies. Even when he tries to trick me into watching them. Because bitches don't cry. Except when someone mistreats the father of her children.
So, I will add this to the ever-growing bank of deployments and TDYs. I think I have a T-shirt for every single one of them.
One day, I will buy him a T-shirt that says "My wife painted the house and all I got was this lousy T-shirt."
He'd probably wear it. Especially if it was pink. Because superheros are secure enough in their manhood to rock pink T-shirts with the word "wife" on them.
Thank you, Mr. Fletcher, for teaching me about stream-of-consciousness writing. I have now wasted 20 minutes of my life and the lives of anyone who reads this.
The End.
October 7, 2010
4 Days
October 7, 2010
I've discovered I'm totally a list girl. Apparently, if it's on a list, it's gonna get done. I take that back. I've always known I'm a list girl. If you've read this blog for any length of time (which I'm sure no one does, but I don't care), you'll have noticed that I do indeed like making lists. Lists don't require any creative segues into the next paragraph. They're pretty and organized. They jive perfectly with my super annoying staccato writing style (my constant use of sentence fragments is not lost on me, nor is it by accident). And they keep me from getting bored with whatever it is I'm talking about at any given moment; I can always change the subject by simply adding another number.
So....um...what was I talking about? Oh, right. Four days. Four days until Sarge comes home. Really, what that means is that more than likely, he is currently, at this very moment, either locked in a cage in some wicked uncomfortable squatting position, getting smacked around, or eating worms. And here I sit with my belly full of a PBJ sandwich, typing on one of 5 laptops in my house, enjoying the breeze from the open back door, and watching my baby doggie snoring away on the floor at my feet. Hmph.
Either way, I lost my train of thought again. Oh, right. The whole point of this post. My list. That list I made back when Sarge first left for this insane, diabolical, torturous "How To Be a POW In 12 Easy Steps" school......otherwise, know as SERE-C. So, let's see what Aimee has actually done over the past 3 weeks, shall we?
1. The living room and stairwell need to be repainted. I'm crossing my fingers that Lowe's can match the paint so I can just do touch-ups and not really have to repaint the whole thing. I really really hate house decorating crap.
DONE! Can you fucking believe that crazy shit? I actually did that! I even braved an incredibly lame come-on line from the paint-mixing guy at Lowe's. Evidently, he would paint my house for me in return for some "favors." C'mon dude. I came to Lowe's in my PJs. Seriously?
2. Gardens need to get weeded, new pine straw put down, and Turf Builder for the grass.
Again, totally DONE! Oh, garsh darn it, my awesomeness just makes me wanna touch myself.
3. Shutters need to be repainted and siding pressure washed.
Yeah......not so much. I'm thinkin' I might just replace the shutters. I'm all painted out for the next 10 years, at least.
4. Learn how to play Dungeons and Dragons because I promised Jake I would play with him.
Oops....sorry Jake. I do totally love you and support all of your super awesome interests. However, I was clearly busy painting. What I find crazy fabulous, though, is that he has now begun creating his own D&D type game, complete with a story line, drawings, characters, and everything. That baby boy's mind is such a beautiful thing.
5. Lose 10 5...grrr....okay, 7 pounds. That's a good, random number.
DONE! Okay, okay, it was more like 4 pounds, but who's counting? The only thing that sucks is my new skinny jeans from Old Navy aren't so skinny anymore.
6. Straighten that one crooked light on the house next to the garage door that's been crooked for weeks but I've been too lazy to reach up and straighten it.
I'm on a roll, bitches!
7. Sweep the spider webs and leaves off the front porch because, evidently, people don't like my pet spiders I'm keeping on the front porch. Stupid people.
Hellz yeah!
8. Get a haircut because, if I don't, I'll wind up letting it grow out to some ridiculously unkempt length again.
Oh, this is getting bad. I really need to try and fit this in sometime this weekend. I'm startin' to feel a bit shaggy round the edges.
9. Finish reading my book about Laura Ling and Euna Lee's captivity in North Korea.
Oooooh, what a good book. I cried at the end. Now I've started another book. Because I like the way books smell.
10. Get the boys' CAT-5 tests ordered at the very least, completed and sent for grading would be totally hardcore.
Ordered! Completed and graded....not so much. But definitely ordered.
Okay, now for an admission. I'm really not done with #1 yet. Two more walls downstairs and then upstairs. I even painted the baseboards, crown molding, and the doors. Or is it crown moulding? It's definitely not moldy. Hmph. I have paint in my hair.
I've discovered I'm totally a list girl. Apparently, if it's on a list, it's gonna get done. I take that back. I've always known I'm a list girl. If you've read this blog for any length of time (which I'm sure no one does, but I don't care), you'll have noticed that I do indeed like making lists. Lists don't require any creative segues into the next paragraph. They're pretty and organized. They jive perfectly with my super annoying staccato writing style (my constant use of sentence fragments is not lost on me, nor is it by accident). And they keep me from getting bored with whatever it is I'm talking about at any given moment; I can always change the subject by simply adding another number.
So....um...what was I talking about? Oh, right. Four days. Four days until Sarge comes home. Really, what that means is that more than likely, he is currently, at this very moment, either locked in a cage in some wicked uncomfortable squatting position, getting smacked around, or eating worms. And here I sit with my belly full of a PBJ sandwich, typing on one of 5 laptops in my house, enjoying the breeze from the open back door, and watching my baby doggie snoring away on the floor at my feet. Hmph.
Either way, I lost my train of thought again. Oh, right. The whole point of this post. My list. That list I made back when Sarge first left for this insane, diabolical, torturous "How To Be a POW In 12 Easy Steps" school......otherwise, know as SERE-C. So, let's see what Aimee has actually done over the past 3 weeks, shall we?
DONE! Can you fucking believe that crazy shit? I actually did that! I even braved an incredibly lame come-on line from the paint-mixing guy at Lowe's. Evidently, he would paint my house for me in return for some "favors." C'mon dude. I came to Lowe's in my PJs. Seriously?
Again, totally DONE! Oh, garsh darn it, my awesomeness just makes me wanna touch myself.
3. Shutters need to be repainted and siding pressure washed.
Yeah......not so much. I'm thinkin' I might just replace the shutters. I'm all painted out for the next 10 years, at least.
4. Learn how to play Dungeons and Dragons because I promised Jake I would play with him.
Oops....sorry Jake. I do totally love you and support all of your super awesome interests. However, I was clearly busy painting. What I find crazy fabulous, though, is that he has now begun creating his own D&D type game, complete with a story line, drawings, characters, and everything. That baby boy's mind is such a beautiful thing.
DONE! Okay, okay, it was more like 4 pounds, but who's counting? The only thing that sucks is my new skinny jeans from Old Navy aren't so skinny anymore.
I'm on a roll, bitches!
Hellz yeah!
8. Get a haircut because, if I don't, I'll wind up letting it grow out to some ridiculously unkempt length again.
Oh, this is getting bad. I really need to try and fit this in sometime this weekend. I'm startin' to feel a bit shaggy round the edges.
Oooooh, what a good book. I cried at the end. Now I've started another book. Because I like the way books smell.
Ordered! Completed and graded....not so much. But definitely ordered.
Okay, now for an admission. I'm really not done with #1 yet. Two more walls downstairs and then upstairs. I even painted the baseboards, crown molding, and the doors. Or is it crown moulding? It's definitely not moldy. Hmph. I have paint in my hair.
October 2, 2010
quiet evening at home
October 2, 2010
I like my home. It has walls that keep the wind out. It has a ceiling that keeps the rain out. It has a floor so I don't have to step on prickers when I walk barefoot. I have brown bamboo blinds because I thought it was important to stay away from the White Plastic Blinds club the rest of my neighborhood belongs to. I heard they were just a bunch of rascals.
It's a good thing I like my house, considering it's also where my kids go to school and where I work. It's where Sammie sprawls out on the living room rug and chases rabbits in her dreams. It's where I can sit on my swing in the backyard and read all afternoon, listening to a weedeater over there, a basketball somewhere else, birds, laughing, nothing.
It's where Sarge can always come home. No matter where in the world he's been, no matter how long he's been there, no matter how ugly things got, he knows his recliner is here waiting for him, his bed will be made every night before he slides between the sheets, and even though dinner might not always be cooked, there are never any MREs.
It's where my sisters and I will always be babies.
It's where Sarge can always ride his Big Wheel.
Things that have always been with me.
New things given to me by far away hearts.
Silly things that make me smile, like Stripper Bear.....
.......Silly things that solemnly prove I am up to no good........
.......and silly things that smell like they were distilled from a diesel engine rather than the shine from the moon.
But most importantly, after traveling the globe, chasing, snoring, welcoming home, howling goodbye, loving, snuggling, and raising her boys, it is probably the last house she will ever know.
And more than likely, in the not-so-distant future, it is the house they will leave, waving excitedly to their bawling mamma, shaking the hand of their stern but trembling pappa, and dancing off with their bull and their horns and their steel-toed boots. Only to return next week to borrow fifty bucks.
I like my home. It has walls that keep the wind out. It has a ceiling that keeps the rain out. It has a floor so I don't have to step on prickers when I walk barefoot. I have brown bamboo blinds because I thought it was important to stay away from the White Plastic Blinds club the rest of my neighborhood belongs to. I heard they were just a bunch of rascals.
It's a good thing I like my house, considering it's also where my kids go to school and where I work. It's where Sammie sprawls out on the living room rug and chases rabbits in her dreams. It's where I can sit on my swing in the backyard and read all afternoon, listening to a weedeater over there, a basketball somewhere else, birds, laughing, nothing.
It's where Sarge can always come home. No matter where in the world he's been, no matter how long he's been there, no matter how ugly things got, he knows his recliner is here waiting for him, his bed will be made every night before he slides between the sheets, and even though dinner might not always be cooked, there are never any MREs.
It's where my sisters and I will always be babies.
It's where Sarge can always ride his Big Wheel.
It's where I hide old secret things.
Things that have always been with me.
New things given to me by far away hearts.
Silly things that make me smile, like Stripper Bear.....
.......Silly things that solemnly prove I am up to no good........
.......and silly things that smell like they were distilled from a diesel engine rather than the shine from the moon.
But most importantly, after traveling the globe, chasing, snoring, welcoming home, howling goodbye, loving, snuggling, and raising her boys, it is probably the last house she will ever know.
And more than likely, in the not-so-distant future, it is the house they will leave, waving excitedly to their bawling mamma, shaking the hand of their stern but trembling pappa, and dancing off with their bull and their horns and their steel-toed boots. Only to return next week to borrow fifty bucks.
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