Back on Land

He deploys, and I make a life back on land.


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Homesick … Milspouse Style

This is a re-post from blog long ago and far away. 

Homesick ... Milspouse Style

Just before Christmas it snowed in Connecticut. It was one of those beautiful, fluffy, toss-the-kids-in-their-snowsuits-and-then-in-a-snowdrift kind of snows. All my friends there posted pictures of sledding and snowmen all over Facebook, and it made me sooooo homesick. I posted something along those lines on Facebook.

A friend who lives here commented, “But I thought you hated snow!?!”

You see, when it snowed here in Washington recently I just grouched for days. I didn’t want the kids to miss school. I don’t like cleaning the puddles on the floor. I don’t like the slushy mess left behind when it inevitably begins raining on the same day as it snows. I really do hate snow. It’s like the teacher from the old Frosty the Snowman movie says, “I like snow. I just want it to stay where it belongs, like in movies and in John Denver songs.”

I replied to my friend that the snow here is different. It really is, too. It’s wet and gloopy and not very fun. Then it rains making it into slush. Then it freezes overnight, and I am stuck in my house. Sounds fun, yes? NO! Connecticut snow is usually fluffy and light and fun for the kids to play. The snowplows there are phenomenal about taking care of the roads. Yay!

But last night, in a completely separate bout of homesickness, I realized something. I didn’t really like the snow in Connecticut either. I don’t like being cold and wet. I don’t like when my ears are so frozen they burn. I don’t like when my fingers are numb. I don’t like snow boots or wearing fourteen sweatshirts and five pairs of socks. I don’t like it at all.

So WHY in the hell does my friends’ Snow Day photography always make me homesick?

The answer came to me quite simply. As a Navy spouse, I can set up house anywhere you stick me. Tiny cramped apartment in Kings Bay? Been there! Two-story townhouse in Groton? Done that! House at the bottom of a hill in Washington? I’m there. I am a master at packing and unpacking. I have owned more curtain rods in more sizes than Wal-Mart. I have moved bookcases and nightstands from room to room to find each piece a spot, and I have bought and sold enough furniture to fill two houses.

But this house is not my home. As a military spouse, my home is the people in my life. Home is the best friend with whom you can watch (and ridicule) “Charlie and Lola”  for hours. Home is the friends who show up for a cookout on a moments notice every night for an entire summer. Home is the friend ready for coffee at midnight after a long shift at a crappy restaurant. Home is the people you can call at any hour, and before you can say, “I need you,” they intuitively say, “How can I help?” That is home to this military spouse. In Connecticut I was home. It isn’t the snow that made me homesick, but the people who posted about it. It isn’t the view of the ocean I miss so much as the people I viewed it with.

So today I am homesick. I miss my “home” in Connecticut. I miss my “home” that moved to Ohio. I miss my “home” that lives in Georgia. I miss my “home” that lives in Arkansas. I am a military spouse. I have homes all over the place, and today I am homesick for each and everyone one of you.

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Leave a comment

Homesick … Milspouse Style

This is a re-post from blog long ago and far away. 

Homesick ... Milspouse Style

Just before Christmas it snowed in Connecticut. It was one of those beautiful, fluffy, toss-the-kids-in-their-snowsuits-and-then-in-a-snowdrift kind of snows. All my friends there posted pictures of sledding and snowmen all over Facebook, and it made me sooooo homesick. I posted something along those lines on Facebook.

A friend who lives here commented, “But I thought you hated snow!?!”

You see, when it snowed here in Washington recently I just grouched for days. I didn’t want the kids to miss school. I don’t like cleaning the puddles on the floor. I don’t like the slushy mess left behind when it inevitably begins raining on the same day as it snows. I really do hate snow. It’s like the teacher from the old Frosty the Snowman movie says, “I like snow. I just want it to stay where it belongs, like in movies and in John Denver songs.”

I replied to my friend that the snow here is different. It really is, too. It’s wet and gloopy and not very fun. Then it rains making it into slush. Then it freezes overnight, and I am stuck in my house. Sounds fun, yes? NO! Connecticut snow is usually fluffy and light and fun for the kids to play. The snowplows there are phenomenal about taking care of the roads. Yay!

But last night, in a completely separate bout of homesickness, I realized something. I didn’t really like the snow in Connecticut either. I don’t like being cold and wet. I don’t like when my ears are so frozen they burn. I don’t like when my fingers are numb. I don’t like snow boots or wearing fourteen sweatshirts and five pairs of socks. I don’t like it at all.

So WHY in the hell does my friends’ Snow Day photography always make me homesick?

The answer came to me quite simply. As a Navy spouse, I can set up house anywhere you stick me. Tiny cramped apartment in Kings Bay? Been there! Two-story townhouse in Groton? Done that! House at the bottom of a hill in Washington? I’m there. I am a master at packing and unpacking. I have owned more curtain rods in more sizes than Wal-Mart. I have moved bookcases and nightstands from room to room to find each piece a spot, and I have bought and sold enough furniture to fill two houses.

But this house is not my home. As a military spouse, my home is the people in my life. Home is the best friend with whom you can watch (and ridicule) “Charlie and Lola”  for hours. Home is the friends who show up for a cookout on a moments notice every night for an entire summer. Home is the friend ready for coffee at midnight after a long shift at a crappy restaurant. Home is the people you can call at any hour, and before you can say, “I need you,” they intuitively say, “How can I help?” That is home to this military spouse. In Connecticut I was home. It isn’t the snow that made me homesick, but the people who posted about it. It isn’t the view of the ocean I miss so much as the people I viewed it with.

So today I am homesick. I miss my “home” in Connecticut. I miss my “home” that moved to Ohio. I miss my “home” that lives in Georgia. I miss my “home” that lives in Arkansas. I am a military spouse. I have homes all over the place, and today I am homesick for each and everyone one of you.


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I Wasn’t “Homesick” for Easter

I get “homesick” … a lot. If you are my friend on Facebook, you’ve seen it … a lot. If you’re my sister who I text and Facebook message everyday, you heard about it … a lot. If you read any of my blogs, you’ve read it … a lot.

But here’s the thing. I live 3500 miles from our last duty station and Josh’s family and about 2000 miles from own family back in Arkansas so it’s natural to miss home, right? But as you may or may not have read here, I don’t really miss Arkansas or Connecticut or Georgia. I don’t miss the snow, the heat, or the scenery. I don’t miss those places at all because I don’t really count any of them or Washington as my “home” anymore. I haven’t lived in my “home” state in over fifteen years, and in those fifteen years, I have lived in four different states at three different duty stations in seven different houses. So where is my home? Where are my roots?

I choose to place my roots in my family. I have roots in Josh and the kids, and I have roots in my sister, my mom, and in all my in-laws. However, in day-to-day living, my most important roots are in the family the Navy has brought to me.  From my best-Georgia-friend, Nicole, who sent me a beautiful and unexpected plant for Easter, to my best-Ohio-friend, Mardi, with whom I share an unnatural obsession with Charlie and Lola, to my best-Connecticut-friend, Vici, who I will always remember in a fabulous red coat marching up the street to tell me just where to buy all the best groceries in Groton. These are the people I call home. They keep me grounded. They are my roots.

On Sunday at the last moment, I invited my best-Washington-friend, Judy, and her three amazing kids to hunt eggs and share Easter dinner with my family. I didn’t have a thing planned ahead. I didn’t have enough eggs stuffed or extra Easter baskets, and I was pretty sure that the tiny ham I bought weeks ago for my little family wasn’t going to stretch for an additional four people.

So I added Caribbean Jerk Chicken to the Easter menu and an extra bag of frozen green beans to the pot. Josh and I made a last-minute trip to Safeway for salad veggies and dinner rolls and had a little Easter hunt of our own for extra plastic eggs (success on an end cap!). In the end our three teens hid a few dozen eggs for our three kids to hunt and seek while three adults watched and snapped pictures. We pushed three seriously mismatched folding tables together on one tiny back deck with nine random lawn, folding, and dining rooms chairs smooshed all around for an Easter dinner that I will likely never forget.

I wasn’t “homesick” for Easter because my “home” is my family, and my family spans the country. On Sunday there is no where I’d rather have been than seated around those mismatched tables with my big ole Navy family cause that’s what I call home.