With little more than 2 1/2 months remaining in Brian’s Air Force career, we have both been hit with the realization that this is not just a job we’re leaving. We’re not merely moving to a new city or a different house. We’re leaving behind a lifestyle. We’re saying goodbye to a community that we’ll never really be a part of again. Sure, Brian is and always will be a veteran, but there’s a different camaraderie amongst active duty service members and their families.
And while this change is 100% what we want for our marriage and for our kids, the bitter part of the bittersweetness hit us both last Friday night like a ton of bricks.
Or like 50 cannon blasts and an amazing fireworks display.
I mentioned on my various social media accounts yesterday that JJ, our 4-year-old, wished Brian a very happy “Fodder’s Day.”
It’s almost like he knew about this blog and that Brian provides me with an infinite amount of fodder for it.
I’m not gonna lie, I sometimes dry heave when I read social media anniversary updates from one spouse to another.
“Happy 4th Anniversary to my Schnookums! You are my everything. You are hotness incarnate. You are the reason I breathe. You are my oxygen.”
You are the reason I vomit.
Those who know me best know that I love surprises — both giving and receiving. Sadly, I am tragically flawed in the secret-keeping arena. If I remember to keep the surprise a secret (a BIG if), then I become too impatient to keep it. This is why Brian almost always receives his Christmas/birthday/anniversary gifts within 25 minutes of when I purchase them.
I just realized this morning that yesterday was National Siblings Day—or, as I like to call it, Opposites Day. I can’t think of a person on earth who is more my opposite than my big brother, Drew.
Thankfully, we share the same Biblical values . . . but that’s pretty much where the similarities end.
For as long as she has had the ability to speak, Averi has referred to yogurt as “dodoke” (pronounced dough-doke). And since I’m a lousy mom with little concern for my child’s cognitive or social development, I don’t bother to correct her.
“Sure, sweetheart, I’ll get you some sugar-and-chemical-filled dodoke. Just let mommy finish her mid-morning nap first. Oh, and can you hand me that lit candle and the lighter fluid while you’re at it?”
With all the hustle and bustle of my parents’ visit, I didn’t have time to get Brian a Valentine’s Day card last week. I broke the cardinal rule of romance: ALWAYS get a card. The little-known, second rule of romance is this: ALWAYS fill the card with enough cash to offset the cringe-worthy sappiness of the card.
There was a time in my life when I wasn’t easily embarrassed. I had a one woman show in middle school. I used to perform SNL skits at family reunions. Y’all, I was the ultimate grand supreme winner of the Barksdale Elementary School lunchtime “Turn Your Face the Purplest Contest”—a contest I both invented and won when I passed out into my chicken noodle soup. (Nope. Not even kidding.)
How’s that for resume material?
I had NO shame—but in a good way. Not in the People of Walmart kind of way.
One of my very best friends (a fellow military spouse) and I had a conversation recently about Christmas and how we want our kids to experience this magical time of year. My friend is a fellow Christian who home schools her 4 kids—all of whom are young enough to believe in Santa Claus.
Before I go any further, I have to let you know that this post is a Santa spoiler alert. So, if you have a habit of curling up by the fire and reading my posts aloud to your children, now would be a good time to forgo that routine. Instead, you might want to read them something a bit less scarring.
Back to my story…