Chris and Miss

When I was ten years old, I decided that I was going to be a world class gymnast.  This was, of course, due to Mary Lou Retton winning the Women’s All-Around at the Los Angeles Olympics.  Who cared if Russia wasn’t there to participate?  I surely wasn’t interested in the Cold War- I was more concerned with how I was going to handle living away from my family when Bela Karolyi recruited me to come and train with him for the ‘88 Summer Olympics.  My desire to become a bouncy gymnast was further solidified when I watched the made-for-TV-movie about Nadia Comaneci.  I knew one thing with absolute certainty…That I would become exactly like her.  Even if I had to move to Romania, and then back to the United States.  Even if I was scrutinized for gaining a few pounds between competitions, and even if I held myself to near impossible standards of perfection.  After all- how else would you score that ever perfect “10″, without being the best.

Just as Mary Lou Retton was beaming her famous smile at the plethora of fans who cheered her on, I began my Olympic training.  I laid out an old brown sleeping bag on our front lawn to use for my floor exercise routine.  I ensured that I did not step off of the sleeping bag while performing my vast array of forward and backward sommersaults, crooked cartwheels, and incredibly impressive jumps and leg kicks, so that I would not receive any point deductions from the imaginary judges.  I then constructed a balance beam out of a two-by-four that was propped up between our deck and a metal garbage can.  The balance beam proved to be the most difficult for me because I was scared to do anything besides walk across the wooden plank for fear of getting slivers.  Next, I brought a container of baby powder outside to powder my hands for my uneven bar routine.  Since my Dad refused to invest in uneven bars for our backyard, I decided that the metal swingset would have to do.  I recruited the only available judge, my younger brother Jeremy, to represent the countries Ireland and Germany.  He diligently watched me powder my hands and swing back and forth several times on the metal bar before landing a perfect dismount on the freshly mowed grass in front of the swingset.  Jeremy then held up two signs with “10″’s on them, signifying my perfect score- because those were the only scorecards I provided for him.  Because I had no idea what would make an acceptable vault with the materials that were available in the backyard, I ended the competition with just three events.

A week later my gymnastics career ended with a bold move to become a world famous Christian singer after I listened to Amy Grant sing “El Shaddai” on the record player in our basement.  I never looked back, or regretted my decision to forgo the pursuit of an Olympic Gold Medal in gymnastics, and become the next Nadia Comaneci.  In fact, I rarely reflected on this lost dream…until I had a daughter.

This past August I watched my seven-year-old daughter, Madison, admire Shawn Johnson, at the Beijing Summer Olympics, in exactly the same way I did while watching Mary Lou Retton so many years ago.  She approached me one morning as I was pouring my first cup of coffee with a single statement, “Mom, I realized that I won’t be sixteen for the London Olympics, so I won’t be able to win the gymnastics medal there.” 

“Really?”  I said, “Well maybe you could wait for the next Summer Olympics, because we really are in no position to move to China right now.”

“Okay,” she answered.  ”Will you still come watch me at the next Olympics?”

“Absolutely,” I assured her.  ”I wouldn’t miss it for anything.  But don’t you think that you should take gymnastics first, before you compete in the Olympics?”

“Can I?”

“I’ll sign you up next week.” I told her.

The next week, I signed her up for beginner gymnastics, along with her younger brother, who is all for jumping on trampolines.  She arrived wearing a brand new leotard and an excited smile on her face, in anticipation of her future as a World Class gymnast.  I noticed that none of the coaches were like the Karolyi’s.  There were no forced smiles, over-exhuberant hugs, or complaints about underage gymnasts- rather, just a lot of kids with big dreams, in the wake of the Summer Olympics.

As I watched my daughter perform stretches on the mats and land perfect cartwheels, I smiled, remembering how it is to be a kid…to have a dream that most adults would find unachievable.  To believe that no matter who you are, or how much money you have, or what limitations you were born with, you can achieve anything, just by believing it can happen.

I realized this morning that Chris left five weeks ago today.  Five weeks- although I remember that Sunday as though it were yesterday.  I remember the sadness I felt each time I realized that he would not be there when I woke up on Monday morning.  I remember the frustration I felt as we stopped at several places to find the perfect shoulder-strap for his gun, when all I wanted to do was be at home, or getting a coffee at Starbucks.  I remember the hope I felt that we would receive a call saying that it was all a big mistake and his Brigade wouldn’t be leaving after all.  I remember the lump in my throat every time he hugged and kissed the kids.  Lastly, I remember crying into the cauliflower as I prepared his final homemade dinner.

Five Sundays ago, was the day that I cried into my cauliflower.  With each slice of the knife, I felt like my world was crumbling apart.  After I had set the pot on to boil, I sat alone on the front porch and watched the flag float in the breeze, with the mountain unobstructed by clouds, in its shadow.  The weather was beautiful and peaceful, it was a perfect summer day.  Yet, all I could think was- this is it.  I can’t believe we are doing this again.

It has been less than four years since his last deployment to Iraq, and I feel like I am learning how to cope all over again.  No matter how long you have to prepare yourself for the inevitable, it still manages to sneak up on you, and shock your senses.  I knew all winter and spring that he would be leaving, and still, I did not feel quite prepared for it when the day arrived.  Sure, I had gotten all of our insurance and important paperwork organized, I had alerted the kids’ teachers, I had promised my children that we would still get to celebrate holidays and birthdays, even if Daddy was not here.  Yet, when the day arrived, I still felt hopeless.

I have spent five weeks, thirty-five days, eight hundred and forty minutes, missing my husband.  I have gotten my children dressed for school, made three meals a day, joined the PTA, volunteered for Girl Scouts, written to several literary agents, and mowed the lawn five times.  I have put on a strong face as I watch my kids cry when they miss their Dad.  I have given three kids their daily vitamins, had more cups of coffee than anyone should ever admit to consuming, and prayed nightly to St. Michael the Archangel for strength and perserverance.  

Last night I made cauliflower for dinner.  I watched the flag float in the breeze, and knew that when I woke up this morning, it would be one day closer to when he comes back home.

 TSP- is an acronym that I like to use.  In the military, it stands for Thrift Savings Plan.  For me it stands for Temporary Single Parent.  For those of you who are familiar with the military- acronyms are a must have, must use, sort of thing- like uniforms, which are consequently called ACUs.  There is a language that one must adapt to in order to be a member of the “military family”.  I have been a member of this family for over twelve years, and if you ask me tomorrow what ACU stands for, I will change the subject.

Let me say this first- I am proud of my husband.  Here is a guy who joined ROTC in college because his Dad made him.  He stayed in ROTC because 1)his Dad made him, 2)he had a partial scholarship, 3)he made friends, 4)he wanted a job after graduation.  As fate would have it, his Dad passed away unexpectedly before his college graduation and ROTC Commissioning.  He was Commissioned a 2LT in 1996, and joined the 81st Brigade.  He pretty much hated it.  He got married to a woman who hated it also.  But he stuck with it, and had every intention of getting out when his commitment was up.  Then something happened.  He began to like his job and developed exceptional selective hearing skills when his wife complained about him being in the military.  Then he started getting called up for State Missions like the WTO riots in 1999 and the Salt Lake City Olympics in 2002.  But in 2003, everything changed.  Before we knew it, the US was sending soldiers to both Afghanistan and Iraq.  Some people were protesting, other people were supporting the military- yellow ribbons and flag were flying all over local Bases.  On February 18, 2004- he left his wife and two kids to serve at LSA Anaconda, Iraq.  While there he earned a Bronze Star and an online degree in Emergency Management.  He also managed to buy every single DVD that the nice Iraqi citizens were selling to US soldiers.  He came home a changed man, a man who loved his job, and a man who decided that he would stay in the military.  Much to his surprise, his wife was proud of him and decided that he was doing what he should be doing.      

I wasn’t surprised when we received the news that his Brigade would be deployed again.  We knew that with each passing year his chances would increase.  I don’t feel sorry for myself, after all, this is a volunteer Army, and although we wouldn’t choose to have him leave, we can’t be mad when they do.  I will say that I do feel bad for my children, however.  They do not deserve to have their Dad gone, especially a Dad like him.   

It takes a lot to be a military family, especially at a time when everyone has an opinion about the war and what we should or should not be doing there.  But, if we could just put those feelings aside and focus instead on the single soldier and what they endure.  The fact that they carry almost 100 pounds of equipment in their ruck sacks.  The fact that they wear uniforms with bullet proof vests and kevlar helmets outside when the weather is over 120 degrees.  The fact that when they drive down a deserted street they have to fear that a bomb will explode under their front tire. 

Right now I am a TSP- a Temporary Single Parent.  Just like the days when my husband is one of the first responders to a flood or a riot or a power outtage.  Just like the summers when my husband is on forest fire duty.  No one will ever understand how much I miss him, but I know that with each call-up; whether it be for a war, a natural disaster, or an unruly group of Anarchists, that he is doing what he can to make all of us safer.