A few days ago a very highly prized object arrived in the mail.  It was in a basic white nondescript tube, but when I saw the return address I actually said out loud "holy crap. you are real."  Then proceeded to put it in the highest place possible so that no baby would chew it and no toddler would spill milk or hide it.  It was John's diploma from Johns Hopkins University.

Let me preface this diatribe by saying I am completely and totally proud of my extraordinarily geeky husband for earning his MS in Systems Engineering from Hopkins (while working a very busy day job).  I am even more stoked that he figured out a way for the Navy to pay for it.  He rocks my socks and this post is not meant to downgrade his accomplishment. 

But this dang degree nearly drove me into a wine induced coma of frustration.  I decided that JohnS HopkinS was named such because it should take TWO of John to finish their stinking engineering degree program.  It caused more than one fight.  And right before John left for his deployment my feelings went quickly from anger to sadness about the amount of time it was stealing from our family.

Dramatic? Maybe  Absolutely.  But you would be pretty ticked too if your husband was given two weeks of leave before a 7 month deployment and proceeded to spend each day (including the weekends) of that leave at the library from 8AM to 6PM working on a final project for a Master's degree.  While you were home with two babies under the age of two and going through the "pre deployment blues".  And reading Facebook statuses about Bed and Breakfast weekends and Disney Cruises.  Yea.  Not a happy wife.

I know I was not being totally fair.  I started my Master's at 23 years old before we had kids or even a dog.  My first year was done while he was on his first deployment so I didn't even have to worry about spending enough time with John.  I went to class, had long coffee dates, studied in the library for hours without any guilt. He was at sea and babies weren't even a twinkle in our eye.  John supported me (financially and emotionally) the entire 2 years.  I graduated at 25, got a job, and worked for three years before Kate was born.  So for the record, I know that I had it much easier. 

But still.  (you may insert a foot stomp and bratty scowl here)

During an argument during his final semester I was being sassy and told him that I was "going to have a drink with that stupid diploma" when it arrived in the mail.  That it only made sense to stare at it and toast the "stupid" program that was such a huge sanity stealer for two years. 

So without further ado...



Cheers to you, Johnny.  Despite how much this tested my patience, I am truly proud of you.  It was a tough road, but you did it and I know that your investment of time will reap rewards for you and for our family that pale in comparison to two weeks of leave.  Thank you for always working so hard!

* At Test Pilot School my spouse's group had t-shirts made that said "TPS Drove Me to Drink" with a picture of a martini glass.  I am going to submit that Hopkins create a t-shirt of similar snark.  I know that there is a population of women who would buy them.  About 5 are very close girlfriends of mine.

The Naval Academy has a period of time during the school year called the "dark ages".  Essentially it is the time between winter break and spring break where it is cold and gray and, well, a little depressing for midshipman.  From the sounds of my husband's recent emails, it seems that they are hitting a similar rut on deployment.

At this point they have been gone long enough (approaching 3 months) to feel disconnected from family and the home life.  Small children have hit milestones without them, birthday parties have been missed, babies have been born, anniversaries have passed.  But at the same time, we still have a long long way to go before they come home.

I get this feeling that John is starting to really feel the void.  That he is in a fleet version of the dark ages.  I have never for even one second pretended that I have it harder than him.  Yes, I am busy and taxed to my parenting limit sometimes, but at the end of the day I can watch my children play, listen to them laugh, revel in their milestones, and enjoy those smooshy baby hugs.  The idea that being a wife is the "toughest job in the Navy" (as those obnoxious bumper stickers like to profess) strikes me as absolutely ridiculous. My heart aches for the things John is missing while deployed.

I'm not sure if there is anything more I can do to make John feel close to home.  He already gets pictures and cards and care packages.  I'm just hoping we can hit halfway (mid August) quickly and that the downhill portion of this deployment brings happy anticipation and gives everyone a second wind.

Lately I have been overcome by some sadness about how fleeting life can feel as a military family.  How people, houses, places, comforts, jobs, and even things like familiar sounds and restaurants just come and go in and out of our lives so quickly and quietly.  I'm not sure what triggered this feeling, but I have been having a little trouble lately getting too attached or too excited about anything for fear that the second I really start to revel in it - it will be gone.

My life, and the lives of those around me, are constantly shifting.  Right now I have close friends planning their PCSs (military lingo for permanent change of station - or, simply put, moving away) to San Diego, Alaska, California, Florida, Hawaii... you name it.  I also, thankfully, have several friends that are moving back to Virginia.  People who I love and haven't seen in months or years.  Our spouses are deploying, coming home, changing jobs, getting out the of the military, and signing contracts to stay in longer.  Sometimes every ounce of my body screams with the desire to grow roots somewhere.  To buy the "perfect" house, make it exactly what I want, watch my kids go to the same school with the same friends, enjoy my social circle and not worry about who is going to move next or what farewell dinner I have to go to now.  It can be so exhausting to worry (and yea, you can see the anxiety peeking out a little here) about who I am going to have to say goodbye to next.  And when I am going to have to say goodbye again, pack up my house, and move into the unknown.

But then something shifts.  A friend who I haven't seen in awhile moves back into my everyday life.  Or I go to a dinner party and enjoy the easy friendships that are formed between military spouses.  How because we don't have those roots, we aren't as hardened or "content" to just stick to the friends we have.  We want to meet others and form new friendships because our lifestyles force us to branch out.  It can be extremely uncomfortable sometimes, and the "see you laters" can cast a shadow on the "nice to meet yous", but the silver lining of a transient lifestyle is certainly there.  When you go through hard times and deployments with other women, near strangers become close girlfriends rather quickly.  So I wonder, do I actually enjoy this fleeting life?  As one of my good friends asked recently, "if you aren't living an adventure, what is the point in living?"  Good question. 

Life is short.  The romance of the transient adventure balanced against the comfort and safety of a "forever home" is a lingering question.  I honestly don't know what I want or when I want it.  I guess for now I need to focus on what makes me happy in the present. 

It is 10:00 PM right now in Connecticut.  Technically, my grandmother turns 90 in 2 hours.  But because she was born in England, I can safely say that she is officially a 90 year old woman.

This blog was created to try and journal my thoughts through John's deployment.  To keep things in perspective and to give me an outlet.  When trying to think of a title I immediately thought of my grandparents.

As most of you know, "Keep Calm and Carry On" was a phrase (and poster) intended as a morale booster in England during the second World War.  My grandmother, who is English, has always had a way of gracefully weathering difficult times.  She has epitomized that phrase in my mind.  She also loves martinis - but the straight up variety - so the cosmopolitans are more of a reflection of me.  She is the only 90 year old woman I know who can finish two martinis at dinner and still walk out of the restaurant on her own two feet.

We all think we have it hard.  That we live in a more complicated time.  That the "good old days" were in another era.  But when I think of the things that my grandparents have lived through, the challenges they faced so bravely (and at such a young age!), I am so humbled.

So in honor of my amazing grandmother, I am going to tell her story.  Most of this was written as a toast by my uncle.  I have added and subtracted some parts for this blog.

The year is 1921.  The place is England.  

The Great War has been over for less than three years.

On July 9, 1921, the truce is declared between what will become the Irish Free State and England.  The colonial secretary who negotiates the truce is Winston Churchill.  A Welshman, David Lloyd George, is Prime Minister.  George the V is King of England.


Many called this time the "magical summer of 1921" because the Empire is at peace for the first time in a generation.  On July 24th of that magical summer 90 years ago, my grandmother was born at Holme Park in Sussex.  


Joan's father, who fought in the Great War, had recently settled in as the head gardener on the magnificent Riverhall Estate.  The family lived in a gardener's cottage on the estate, and Joan grew up scampering about under huge pink and purple rhododendron.  Her first memories are of being under those flowers.


On to 1934.  Joan is 13 and the depression is imposing its weight even on the grand estates of England and the gardeners at Riverhall are let go.  Her father finds a new job work in the public garden in the village of Braintree in Essex.  The entire family moves to Braintree.


Two years later, on March 7, 1936, Hitler's armies reoccupy the Rhineland in violation of the Treaty of Versaille and it seems clear, at least to Churchill, that the storm clouds of war are gathering over Europe again.  


Joan is now 15 and her childhood is coming to an end; and though it is not yet fully appreciated, the sun is setting on the British Empire.  The unsettling upheaval in the order of nation's events continues when, on December 10, 1936, Edward VIII becomes the first British Monarch in history to abdicate his throne.  He does it in order to marry the American divorcee, Mrs. Wallace Simpson.


Three years later, on September 1, 1939, Germany invades Poland and two days after that, on September 3, 1939, in accordance with their treaty obligations, England and France declare war on Germany.  Joan is 18 years old.


Less than a year later, in June of 1940, France surrenders to Germany and for the next year and a half Great Britain stands almost alone against the Nazis.  The struggle for air supremacy over England, and the Battle of Britain is fought.  The Germans attempt to bomb the English into submission and civilian casualties in London alone rise to 300-600 per day killed, and 1000-3000 a day wounded.  Despite Charles Lindbergh's prediction of the sure and rapid defeat of the Royal Air Force, the Battle of Britain is won by the British pilots in what Churchill calls England's "finest hour".  Hitler turns his attention to Russia.


The Japanese attack Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, bringing the United States into the war, and creating the Grand Alliance.


Early in 1942, at the age of 20, Joan enlists in the Women's Royal English Navy, or as we refer to it, the Wrens.  In leaving her former life behind, she decides to change her name from Joan to Jill.  She becomes a radio operator based at the Anglesey Naval Base in Western England.  She keeps radio contact with convoys bringing vital supplies to England from the United States.  The work is difficult because of the complex codes used to avoid being tracked by the U-Boats that were hunting them.  


In 1944, an Army Air Corps aviator (my grandfather) arrives in England.


Stan and Jill meet on an evening in September of 1944.  He proposes the first night they meet. She tells him to "ask again tomorrow".  He does and again she tells him to ask "tomorrow".  On the third night he doesn't arrive.  My grandmother, not surprised, decides to forget about the handsome American.  It turns out that he was sent away on a mission and had to leave in the middle of the night.  Several months later he returns and they fall in love.


They were married less than a year later on June 22, 1945.  Jill was 23 years old, Stanley 20.  


Within weeks of their marriage, Stan's squadron begins its journey to the Pacific.  Stan is shipped first to the United States, where is he is granted brief leave.  He is on that leave when the Second World War comes unexpectedly to an end, in August 1945, when the dropping of two atomic bombs forces the surrender of the Japanese.


Late in 1945, Stan returns to England to fetch his bride.  They travel on a Pam American World Airways DC-6.  Jill arrives at LaGuardia Airport in January of 1946, with one suitcase, and enters her new country for the first time.  She is 24 years old.


Apartments are extremely scarce, so Stan and Jill stay with Stan's parents until they get a small 5th floor walk up in the Bronx.  Jill goes to work for Harper's Bazaar magazine and Stan attends NYU and drives a cab to pay the bills.


Stan graduates from NYU in 1949 and goes into the Air Force.  They move to Randolph AFB in San Antonio, TX.  Jill takes a 3 day train trip across the United States to Texas and it is only then that she realizes how really big the country is.  The scrublands of Texas look different than the green hills of England.


From Texas they move to Enid, OK where my mother is born.  Then to Ellington AFB in Houston.  Then to Mather AFB in Sacramento.  Then to Davis Monthon AFB in Tuscon where my uncle is born.


My grandfather starts having problems with his security clearance in the Air Force and his career has seemed to stall.  He finds out that because his mother is a "communist sympathizer", he will probably be denied promotion.  The fact that he is a Jew probably doesn't help either. Stan leaves the Air Force and joins American Airlines in 1953.  He is the first Jewish pilot hired by a major American airline.


Eventually, they settle together in Westport, Connecticut and live a life full of family, travel, and "extremely good fortune".  


My grandmother's zest for life is the same today as it was 5 and 50 years ago.  She plugs along, rolling over any obstacle in her path.  In the English fashion, she barely allows any of us to catch of glimpse of what lies behind her stiff upper lip.


Happy Birthday, grandma!  You are such an inspiration - both what you have done, but mostly the amazing attitude and wit you have exuded through the journey.  I hope I can grow up to be as graceful, loving, funny, and wise as you.  I am so proud to be named after you.

Yesterday we packed up the car and ventured on a road trip that spanned 7 states and over 400 miles.  It started with the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel


This trip was made for one person - my grandmother.   A woman who has been like a second  mother to me my entire life.  She is turning 90.  And to celebrate, we are gathering her family and good friends for a series of celebrations.  Right now we are conspiring to think up 90 reasons that we love and admire her.  And while it might be hard to think up 9 reasons that some people are great, I could probably think of 900 reasons for my grandmother.  This project will be easy.

While we are here I will find the time to post the story of my grandparents and why they inspired some parts of this blog.  How in 1943, in a small English town, my American grandfather met my British grandmother and proposed that very night.  The story of their whirlwind romance during WWII is amazing and inspiring.  It helps to keep my feelings toward John's deployment in perspective.

The lack of posting is coming from one place - lack of sleep. I am bone tired.  I'm not sure why it has hit me this week.  Maybe it was because last week Kate was sick and we had lots of new teeth arrive for Connor.  Last week I slept very very little - drank more coffee than I care to admit to - but made it through relatively unscathed.  Or so I thought.  This week things are quieter; Kate is feeling better and Connor is the proud owner of 4 new teeth on top (6 total now). My body is finally like, "hey dude! pay attention to me!".  So instead of blogging (or really doing anything in the evenings) I have been going to bed early.  At 9PM I force myself to turn the lights out for the sake of my sanity.

I was telling my mom yesterday that I literally haven't slept straight through the night since sometime in late 2008.  I don't remember what it feels like to get in bed, pull up my covers, and then wake up to my alarm clock (or the sunrise).  Please don't think I am complaining about motherhood.  As someone who took the very long road to parenthood I am more than grateful for my children.  I am thrilled that the reason I haven't had a good solid sleep in so long is because of my two gorgeous babies.  But I am just exhausted. 

I hit a wall last weekend and decided that Connor was going to meet Dr. Ferber this week.  Making the decision to "Ferberize" is like making an investment.  You will lose a few nights sleep more than likely (to fussing, crying, and having to go do the timed checks) but according to his book, you will reap the rewards of much more sleep in the long run.  Of course the book recommends that both partners participate so that neither parent is completely a zombie during the process.  Right.  Strike that into "my husband is deployed, I'll do it alone, I'll suck it up" category.

This morning I am happy to report, that after 3 nights of Ferber, Connor slept from 7PM to 5:30AM without waking at all.  With no pacifier, no feedings, and no crying.  Thank you 8 pound 6 ounce sweet baby jesus.  And since my body was beyond ready for a solid night's rest - I slept through the night too.  Watch out world!