The Mom of Military "Brats"

brat-(brat)n. An ill-mannered or spoiled child

Not really sure who coined the phrase "military brat," but in the eyes of almost everyone who has heard the phrase, I've got four. In defense of the dictionary I used, the second one states, "A child of a career military person." But the word brat carries with it such a negative connotation. And military brat, even more so. But surrounded by my four "brats" today, it caused me to sit and think on this very phrase. My children look at adults in the eyes when they speak, they speak when spoken to...or we're working on that one with two in particular...they say please, thank you, yes ma'am and no sir. The boys hold doors open and my girls have "kissing knees." They ask left out children to play, they eat with napkins in their laps, they put their hand over their hearts when they play the national anthem, and the boys take off their hats when they sit at a table. They obey their coaches, music teachers, and other adults. They care about feelings and boo-boos of their siblings. They make offers of help, see needs, carry in groceries, and swiffer my floors. They pick up their messes, they pray for people, they sing together, and play hide and go seek. My brats are not ill mannered nor are they spoiled. They let the country borrow their Daddy for months at a time, they give up birthdays with him, holidays, weekends. They don't waste moments with him, they meet him for lunch, they sit in his office when he can't be at home, and they say good night on the phone instead of in person. They have learned to ride bikes and then email him to tell him. They let him miss games, dance recitals, and birthday parties. They know his job does not come first but they also know sometimes it may seem like it. No, spoiled is not the word I would use, nor ill-mannered, nor brat. They are children of a United States Marine. And I am their Mom and couldn't be prouder to have that title.

It's more than fishing

I have to admit, I am not a big fan of fishing. It's not that I feel for the fish (although when they swallow the hook I can't watch) it's just that I don't want to do it, I don't get it, I don't find it fun. I like the quietness of it but that's about all. I don't get it. So when asked to go this afternoon, reluctantly I went. I whined in my head and to myself. There was so much I needed to be doing as a new week was staring me down the barrel. I needed to fold clothes, change the calendar, put up new vocabulary words, unpack my church bag, check lesson plans, and just little odds and ends that needed attention before our week began. Ugh. Fishing? Seriously? Why? Why do they want me to go? Usually I just sit on the golf cart cheering for the girls' casts, admiring the boys' fish, and listening to my man's explanations (I think in his noble attempt to get me to like something the whole family seems to...everyone that is, but me). I don't DO anything. Why would they want me there? Tonight, I figured if I sat there long enough and just poopy enough he would release me from my cheerleading duties and I could go home, which is really where I wanted to be. But no. I went. Reluctantly. Feet dragging. Poopy face and all. The boys were at a picnic so we left with just the girls, a container of worms, a Barbie fishing pole, a Hello Kitty one, and three real ones...just in case the boys came home and found our note declaring our whereabouts. As we pulled up to the spot near the small pond, the girls were giddy, jumping around their Daddy's feet, asking questions, sticking their own pink poles in his face, and all the while saying, "Watch us Mommy!" Why? Why did they want me to watch? It's just fishing. I've seen it 100 times, what is going to be so different that I have to watch??? I needed to be changing the calendar for tomorrow, didn't they know that? I watched. I watched them. I saw a three year old cast a line better than I ever could. A Daddy carefully folding his big hands over a small three year old's hands to show her. A little girl proving to herself that she could do something by herself that she had watched her brothers do for so long. I watched. I watched the man I adore explain fishing to his girls but so much more. He was teaching them patience, obedience, a love for the sport. He was praising them, talking to them, watching them and all the while be so patient. My poopy face watched. I watched two boys coming down the hill, so excited to have caught up to us before the adventure was over. I watched my two boys, who used to need so much help, jump right in, changing lures, casting lines, and reeling in fish. I saw my once tiny, first girl pull in her first fish then without blinking, pick it up, show it proudly to me and throw it back in. I watched a Daddy lovingly correct, demonstrate, explain the whys of it all. I watched. I watched my five favorite people laugh, exclaim, explore, talk. I watched a Daddy get all prepared to throw in his own line only to have to stop to bait a hook, untangle a line, or help a little hand reel in a fish. I saw what a great Daddy my Marine is. When he is home, he is home. I saw the fruits of his fishing trips walking down to the pond, I saw how lovingly he shares one of his passions, I saw how much he enjoys this time, and I saw what they will miss in a few short weeks when we embark on our 7th deployment. I saw this all. I saw why God created families the way He did with a Mom and a Dad because they are learning from him, things I could never teach them. I saw what a good man he is. I saw what awesome children God has given me. By God's grace, I watched. He allowed me a moment in my day to watch. My face was no longer poopy. I saw what He wanted me to see. It's more than fishing.

Observation of the species

I sit here amazed at this species. They are rowdy and funny. They are loud and competitive. I watch them compete...at everything. "I can eat faster than you." "I can get there faster than you." "I bet I can take a bigger bite than you." 5 of them are in my living room. 3 are racing for their life in Mario Cart while 2 of them box, then they switch. They actually fight for the boxing gloves. The noise is often times loud and the sound of punches landing followed by "awwwwwww," make me stare. My husband walks through without so much of a glance, like he is walking down a familiar street. Me on the other hand, stare. I keep staring, like it's a car accident, I just can't make myself look away. They are so different. I stare because I can't fathom even wanting to punch someone...for fun. But as I look, I think of the men they will become. Strong, protective, hunters, gatherers, husbands, fathers,...men. I love this species. I'm off to stare.

acting and being

Today I am tired. I am tired for so many reasons but at the root of it all, I tried to do this weekend in my own strength. I tried too hard and got nowhere. I can act kind, I can act joyful, I can act at peace, and I can act loving, but it beats me down eventually. I am ready to be kind, to be joyful, to be at peace, and to be loving. It's the Fruit. It's here, it's my choice.

The Glad Game

I am so proud of them. The little people in my house rock. The goodbye is over and we are plowing ahead. A few tears, a few sad moments, but for the most part, they choose to see the good in it.
Their list:
1. It is only a short trip, at least it's not a long one.
2. We get to eat at Subway after church.
3. We get to have cupcakes when he gets home.
4. 26 days is not very long.
5. Daddy would not want us to be sad.
6. Daddy always comes home
7. We can go pick him up when his jet comes in.
This is their list. Their glad game. I love these kids.
My list:
1. If I have to be away from my man, at least I have the four coolest kids in the world to do it with!

The Dry Run

He is going. Thankfully it is a short one. He leaves tomorrow but is at work today (it's a rainy Saturday!). I'm bummed, but I get it. It's his job. It's what he does, it's what they do. Go, come, go, come. Goodbyes are never easy, not even the short ones. Those are almost harder. You do the worst of a long deployment: the very beginning and the very end. The beginning is always hard. Watching the packing, working extra hours, saying goodbye, trying not to imagine the number of days, staying out of the dumps, it's all hard. The end is always hard. Waiting, waiting, more waiting, it's all hard. With a long deployment, the beginning eventually becomes "your groove." Everyone is in a routine, life is "normal," you're doing it. It's like being on cruise control for a long car trip. Music's on, miles are passing, kids are content. No one is asking, "Are we almost there yet?" "When is the next stop?" "I'm hungry." "I need to use the bathroom." With a short deployment, we never hit cruise. We go straight from beginning to the end. The questions always come. "Why does he have to go?" "How long will he be gone?" "Where is he going?" "How many days is 4 weeks?" "How many more days NOW?" It's hard. Tomorrow is a short trip. I've watched him pack, he is working today, we will say goodbye before church tomorrow, and already I am fending off being in the dumps. It is a short one. June will be a long one. Tomorrow is our dry run. Thankfully it's a short one.

one in a million

ok, actually it's one in 52,325. It is a statistic I heard recently. How many people do you need before you get one Marine? The answer was Yankee Stadium needed to fill to capacity before you got one Marine. I had to know. What are the odds that my man is a Marine. Answer.com gave the capacity of 52,325. Wow. I knew he was great, but I would have to search 52,325 people before I found my "one of the few?" As I mulled it over, I wondered how many of those Marines would end up flying? How many of those flying would end up flying a jet? How many of those ending up in a jet, would end up in an f18? Of those in an F18, how many would be in 224? And so my questions went. Until I got the answer of only one. He's my one. My One of the Few. To me, he is one in a Million.