Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Goodbye Tuff Girl
I got a new car. I needed one. My Jeep (which P lovingly named Tuff Girl) was getting close to the magic mileage number for the best trade-in value and our growing family was getting seriously cramped, and while I loved so many things about Tuff Girl, I knew it was time for us to part ways.
After two days of scouring every major car dealership in the greater Anchorage area we got a great deal on a great car with as much seating and cargo space as you can get without going the minivan route. On a side note, at every dealership I would tell the salesman what my three options were and every time they would try to sell me a minivan -- so frustrating! Anyway, I should be elated, right? And I am. But. But for the fact that in order to get the new car I have to leave Tuff Girl at the dealership. You wouldn't think that would be an emotional moment, but it was. It always is.
One of my dirty little secrets is that I have cried every single time we have gotten rid of a vehicle, from the Delorian-like red car that John and I paid $100 for in Italy when we were still dating to our recent trade-in of the Jeep. Without fail, I have driven away wiping tears from my eyes like I was leaving my child with complete strangers. I know that it seems ridiculous, but here's the thing -- the passing of vehicles is like the seasons of our lives passing, and so I have become emotionally invested in each of them. When we left our car in Italy to move back to the states we were launching full speed ahead into our married life. When we traded in our not-so-trusty 1985 Bronco we were finally becoming grown-ups and tackling a car payment. When we went from a pickup truck to an SUV because I was pregnant with G we were letting go of our kid-free freedom. When we left that SUV at the dealership and drove home the Jeep I cried at the idea of giving up the car that brought G home.
It was no different this time. If anything, it was worse. I'm pretty sure that I was more emotionally invested in Tuff Girl than any other car to date. She moved us from California to Colorado and then from Colorado to Alaska. She was faithful to give me absolutely no problems through two deployments and barely slipped a tire through my first Alaskan winter. Sky and I had matching cars. She brought both of our daughters home. She had backup sensors, which I am positive saved me hundreds of dollars in insurance premiums! But our family has outgrown her. Another season of our lives has passed, and so the Jeep must go (sniffle, sniffle).
Thursday, June 28, 2012
This is What Happens When You Underestimate a Toddler
When the big kids were one I remember thinking how big they seemed to me, mostly because I had no basis for comparison. Now that R is one and I have a five-year-old and a three-going-on-thirty-year-old, she seems much more baby-ish to me. That being said, I often forget about what she is capable of doing physically (like her new habit of just standing up in her high chair when she's done eating). My tendency to forget really backfired yesterday when I bought P a marshallow dream bar (Starbucks name for a Rice Krispy Treat) as a treat while we were out on girls day. While I was loading groceries into the car I put the bar, in the bag, on the back of the cart, presumably out of R's reach, only to turn around and see this:
That's right, her two little front teeth allowed her to chomp off a corner before I could (take this picture and...) get it from her. But oh well, she worked hard for it, lived to tell about it, and gave me this great photo op for her scrapbook!
Sunday, June 24, 2012
R is ONE!
And there it is, ladies and gentleman! Just like that our baby girl is ONE!
Here's to the late night feedings, hugs and kisses, lost pacifiers, toothless smiles, messy diapers, countless tears, new discoveries, love, and adventures that have made Rogue Scout's first year all that I prayed for and more!
We love you, Sweet Baby R, and can't wait to see who you are growing in to!
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Fire Team Highlights
John went back to work today. When we were putting the big kids to bed last night we were trying to prepare them for not seeing John when they woke up in the morning and they kept asking "so, he's going back to Afghanistan?". I kept telling them no, that he would just be working at his company, the building next to BN, which they are familiar with from FRG meetings, numerous trips to S1, etc. When it finally sunk in that I was talking about a building that she is intimately familiar with, P looked at me with confusion written all over her face and said "Daddy works there?". She had no idea.
Skip forward a few minutes from that conversation and P and I are talking about someone who was poisoned (yes, I know my kids talk about weird things -- do you know their parents?). Here's the play by play.
P: So, he was poisoned, like the Man in Black?
Me: What?
P: You know, like the Man in Black was poisoned on the train car in Pioneer Park?
Me: No, that was not the Man in Black, that was President Harding.
P: Oh, but the Man in Black is still dead, right?
Me: Yes, he's still dead
And then Gunnar pops out of bed and, in his super-sad-almost-in-tears voice, says "the Man in Black is dead?"
Seriously, I could not write this stuff.
In other news, Baby Rogue is one, and I'm not writing a big entry about it because I'm still sort of in denial. How did a year go by so quickly?
Skip forward a few minutes from that conversation and P and I are talking about someone who was poisoned (yes, I know my kids talk about weird things -- do you know their parents?). Here's the play by play.
P: So, he was poisoned, like the Man in Black?
Me: What?
P: You know, like the Man in Black was poisoned on the train car in Pioneer Park?
Me: No, that was not the Man in Black, that was President Harding.
P: Oh, but the Man in Black is still dead, right?
Me: Yes, he's still dead
And then Gunnar pops out of bed and, in his super-sad-almost-in-tears voice, says "the Man in Black is dead?"
Seriously, I could not write this stuff.
In other news, Baby Rogue is one, and I'm not writing a big entry about it because I'm still sort of in denial. How did a year go by so quickly?
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
As If...
I can remember, vividly, a conversation that John and I had almost exactly two years ago, weighing the possibility of having another baby.
On Friday R will be one! I can't believe we ever debated bringing her sweet little soul into the world!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
A Lesson in Humility
I think that if more people had the opprounity to stand in some of the places that I stand the social climate in the United States would soar with support for our military.
I don't mean that in a look-at-all-I-sacrifice way. If you know me, you know that's not who I am.
I mean it in a I-am-so-humbled way.
So humbled.
I know what people think about the Army. I know what they think about the infantry. I see how the young men that we send to war are depicted in popular media. It's no secret that the respect and pride that our nation once felt for our military decreases significantly as decades pass. However, the sense of pride and dedication to one another and to our country that our soldiers have does not.
Tonight I stood in room full of soldiers. A room full of dress blues, class A's, stripes, bars, bow ties, shiny shoes, and fresh haircuts. There was a buzz of energy in the air. Laughter. Cheering. Toasting.
And then the toast came. The one where they said that names of those who were not standing in that room. You could have heard a pin drop. Humility washed over the room. They all stood there, solemn, remembering that it was not long ago that the whole of them were wearing multicams and body armor, five o'clock shadows and the dirt that never goes away, and that for some of them that would be the last thing they would ever wear.
No one standing in the room was untouched. I'm convinced that to have remained untouched was an impossibility.
It's easy to make a snap judgement based on the testimony of the friend of a friend of a friend whose brother was in the Army for two years, or based on the stories you hear in the popular media, but when you see their faces and hear their stories -- when you see their bond and stand them while they remember those that they have lost you cannot keep your heart from swelling with pride and admiration. The sense of humility is overwhelming.
I'm convinced that if more people had the opprotunity to stand in the room where I stood tonight they would be better for it. The long lost sense of pride and admiration would quickly return. That is, in a perfect world. In this world, I was the one standing there, and I am awed. And grateful. And humbled. So humbled.
I don't mean that in a look-at-all-I-sacrifice way. If you know me, you know that's not who I am.
I mean it in a I-am-so-humbled way.
So humbled.
I know what people think about the Army. I know what they think about the infantry. I see how the young men that we send to war are depicted in popular media. It's no secret that the respect and pride that our nation once felt for our military decreases significantly as decades pass. However, the sense of pride and dedication to one another and to our country that our soldiers have does not.
Tonight I stood in room full of soldiers. A room full of dress blues, class A's, stripes, bars, bow ties, shiny shoes, and fresh haircuts. There was a buzz of energy in the air. Laughter. Cheering. Toasting.
And then the toast came. The one where they said that names of those who were not standing in that room. You could have heard a pin drop. Humility washed over the room. They all stood there, solemn, remembering that it was not long ago that the whole of them were wearing multicams and body armor, five o'clock shadows and the dirt that never goes away, and that for some of them that would be the last thing they would ever wear.
No one standing in the room was untouched. I'm convinced that to have remained untouched was an impossibility.
It's easy to make a snap judgement based on the testimony of the friend of a friend of a friend whose brother was in the Army for two years, or based on the stories you hear in the popular media, but when you see their faces and hear their stories -- when you see their bond and stand them while they remember those that they have lost you cannot keep your heart from swelling with pride and admiration. The sense of humility is overwhelming.
I'm convinced that if more people had the opprotunity to stand in the room where I stood tonight they would be better for it. The long lost sense of pride and admiration would quickly return. That is, in a perfect world. In this world, I was the one standing there, and I am awed. And grateful. And humbled. So humbled.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Five Years
When G was still a tiny babe in arms I remember reading somewhere that parents only truly have the first five years of a childs life to teach them all the things that they will need to navigate the world. Sure, after that point you can teach them the details, but by five, it claimed, they were already who they were going to be.
I remember panicking at the thought that John and I had five short years with this boy to instill the things that he would need to hold in is heart to navigate the rest of his life.
No pressure.
Fast forward two blinks of an eye and our time is up. The first five years with Gunnar are gone.
Every parent knows that every parent who went before them always says "it goes by so quickly, cherish each moment", and we have. I remember the first thought that went through my head the moment I saw him. I know exactly where he was standing when he said his first word. I remember that he still couldn't walk when John took him on his first "boys only" hunting trip. I can remember each of the 13 times he has been the reason we were sitting in the ER. I remember the way he cried when the sonographer told him he was having another sister, and the way his eyes lit up the first time he held her. I remember the dance we did the first time he read the word "bus". I remember the prayer he said faithfully for each year of his life that his dad was in Afghanistan.
I have cherished each moment, snapped every picture possible, memorized each adorably mispronounced word.
But, having just tucked into bed, for the first time, my five year old son, I wonder if I've done enough. Have I taught him enough about the real Jesus? Does he know how far a smile will go? Does he know that the best way to stand out in a crowd is to be honest and selfless and serve others? Have I "trained up a child in the way that he should go" so that "when he is older he will not part from it?"
If I'm honest with myself the answer is that I don't know. I don't know if we have done enough with the first five years. I pray that we have, but even if we haven't, we can't have those five years back. So now we dig into the details and watch the rest unfold.
A few days ago John heard the song "He's Mine" by Rodney Atkins for the first time. We shared a laugh about the line that says "I'll take the blame and claim him everytime". This speaks so truly to Gunnar, we agreed, because our son is always the one doing either the extremely right thing or the extremely wrong thing. Occassionally catching him doing the extremely right thing renews my faith that the unfolding will be a joy because our first five years have been intense and productive, full of lessons in morals and character, regularly opening God's Word and submitting our petition to Him.
The first five years with Gunnar have been such an adventure, such a blessing, that I can't even begin to fathom what the coming years will bring. I would venture to say that the one thing that I know for sure is that the adventure of raising Gunnar will continue to be enough to keep us faithfully entering the throne room of God, usually with petitions for patience :)
I remember panicking at the thought that John and I had five short years with this boy to instill the things that he would need to hold in is heart to navigate the rest of his life.
No pressure.
Fast forward two blinks of an eye and our time is up. The first five years with Gunnar are gone.
Every parent knows that every parent who went before them always says "it goes by so quickly, cherish each moment", and we have. I remember the first thought that went through my head the moment I saw him. I know exactly where he was standing when he said his first word. I remember that he still couldn't walk when John took him on his first "boys only" hunting trip. I can remember each of the 13 times he has been the reason we were sitting in the ER. I remember the way he cried when the sonographer told him he was having another sister, and the way his eyes lit up the first time he held her. I remember the dance we did the first time he read the word "bus". I remember the prayer he said faithfully for each year of his life that his dad was in Afghanistan.
I have cherished each moment, snapped every picture possible, memorized each adorably mispronounced word.
But, having just tucked into bed, for the first time, my five year old son, I wonder if I've done enough. Have I taught him enough about the real Jesus? Does he know how far a smile will go? Does he know that the best way to stand out in a crowd is to be honest and selfless and serve others? Have I "trained up a child in the way that he should go" so that "when he is older he will not part from it?"
If I'm honest with myself the answer is that I don't know. I don't know if we have done enough with the first five years. I pray that we have, but even if we haven't, we can't have those five years back. So now we dig into the details and watch the rest unfold.
A few days ago John heard the song "He's Mine" by Rodney Atkins for the first time. We shared a laugh about the line that says "I'll take the blame and claim him everytime". This speaks so truly to Gunnar, we agreed, because our son is always the one doing either the extremely right thing or the extremely wrong thing. Occassionally catching him doing the extremely right thing renews my faith that the unfolding will be a joy because our first five years have been intense and productive, full of lessons in morals and character, regularly opening God's Word and submitting our petition to Him.
The first five years with Gunnar have been such an adventure, such a blessing, that I can't even begin to fathom what the coming years will bring. I would venture to say that the one thing that I know for sure is that the adventure of raising Gunnar will continue to be enough to keep us faithfully entering the throne room of God, usually with petitions for patience :)
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