Rinse and repeat

In journalism, reporters are encouraged, even required, to write about new things almost every single day. A reporter may cover a beat, as I did, and they may come back to certain topics or themes; I covered women's health, pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding more than most health reporters do. In the end, though, each story must follow the rules of significant, important and new.

Writing a personal blog, one based on my life rather than on a certain set of topics, is a different experience. In our lives, very little is new; even less when you are raising a young family. New things happen as the children grow and learn new things, and as I grow and learn, but this phase of life is like a wheel that turns. It eventually gets somewhere, but it sometimes feels like the same day, over and over.

That sameness, even as life changes, even as I grow a beachball for a belly and the baby kicks and turns, sometimes makes writing here difficult. Sure, pregnancy can be interesting writing fodder, but seriously, not the fourth time. To me, this is pretty routine.

So each time I write about parental exhaustion, cute things the kids do, or raising the kids while Hubby is away, I feel like I'm repeating myself. There are many other topics I itch to write about, but they involve family members; I'm not comfortable exposing them the way I expose my own inner life.

So I'm struggling to find a way to make the wheel of my life fresh, trying to tease out the new ideas and deeper meanings. It's not easy.

The great fiction writers I read and reread, the ones whose prose is so moving or profound or beautiful  they sometimes make me weep, tend to write in wheels, tend to tell similar stories for a period in time, or even for their entire writing careers.

L.M. Montgomery wrote almost exclusively about orphans and abandoned children. This was her life experience. She was dumped at her grandparents' home by her father as a toddler after her mother died and he remarried, and that sense of loss and abandonment, of being discarded, haunted her entire life. It echoed in her writing until she died, most likely from a drug overdose, after a difficult life with a mentally ill spouse, a dead best friend, a baby who died at birth, and a son who was a massive disappointment. (Her other son, Stuart, was the light of her life.)

That never-ending wheel of a challenging and sometimes miserable life produced some of the most memorable girls and women to ever grace the page of a novel. Everyone knows about Anne Shirley, of course, the red-headed spitfire, abused and mistreated, who finds a loving home and turns into a sweet-lipped, smart young woman. But the one who sticks with me the most is Emily Starr, the young girl who becomes a great writer, not through writing about things that are new and different to her, but through writing about her simple life in Prince Edward Island and the people there -- the same thing Montgomery did, but Emily's story ends so much sweeter.

When I think about it, most truly great novelists cover a basic theme, a wheel -- Dickens, Lewis, Tolkien, Austen.

How do I do this in non-fiction in a way that is still interesting to readers, but without betraying the privacy of those I love? How do I describe my wheel?

I think this might be a good start.

Having one of those weeks

somebody do something
anything soon
i know i can't be the only
whatever i am in the room
so why am i so lonely?
why am i so tired?
i need backup
i need company
i need to be inspired
-- "Face up and Sing", Ani De Franco

Sometimes I wish I knew just one other woman my age, in my town, who is doing what I'm doing and believes what I believe -- all of it, from the Catholic to the feminist.

I'm just having a tiring week, I think. I'm into week two of a seven-week separation from Hubby (he's on a course in Halifax). Baby gave me a scare last night -- turned out to be nothing, but it meant a trip to the hospital. And I have a pounding headache tonight.

OK, time to stop complaining and feeling homesick for Yellowknife, and just put the kids to bed.

By the way, some good news. The baby is a boy. :)

Joy conquers fear

When The Hubby and I decided the time was right to be open to a new baby joining our family, I had a few worries and concerns. The first was medical, of course: after my last pregnancy, expecting a baby became a medical condition more than a natural state of being, courtesy of hyperemesis gravidarum. We did a lot of planning and preparing. I wrote a treatment protocol, gained some safety pounds, and searched out a doctor who knew HG, knew it well and was up on the latest treatments and research. Through God, I had conquered my fear. I was ready to try again.

With all that in place, I was both elated and a little overwhelmed when we conceived the very first month we stopped avoiding conception (for information on the scientific form of natural family planning we use, go check out http://www.woomb.org/ . You do not have to take chemicals or use artificial barriers or devices to control the timing or size of your family. Stepping off soapbox now.) "Wow, that was fast!" was my first reaction when I started getting sick in the mornings, followed by a pink plus sign on the test a week later.

My biggest worry was the reaction of well-meaning family and friends when we told them about the new arrival.

There were a few negative reactions when we announced Toddler N.'s conception. Most were very well-meaning, of course, and were simply the mouth moving faster than the brain's editing button. A lot of people think two children are more than enough, and do not understand why Hubby and I would want more. Even so, pregnant women are not the most rational creatures on the planet, and I was a little hurt by some of it.

Little did I know that was just the beginning. You see, people started to really worry when I got so very sick carrying N. Worry breeds fear, and fear can make well-meaning and loving people say some pretty stupid things. And some of the things people said crushed me.

I had good, dear and loyal friends who were worried sick about me and sometimes said things that stung -- but looking back on that, I understand why. They thought I was going to die. They were terrified, and fear is always a bad motivator. I know these people love me so very much, and it was easy to forgive them.
 
Funny thing was, the people who loved me most and helped me the most during that experience -- who took on the greatest burdens, whether helping me at home or being available to listen to me complain (thanks, Mom) or just worrying themselves into a frenzy -- were the people least likely to say the really, really stupid things. In fact, it was acquantances rather than good friends, and extended family rather than immediate family, who said the real doozies. The worst, the very worst, was when people ordered me to not have any more kids, as if these people who did not love me and did nothing to help me were somehow burdened by my ill health. They acted as if it was their decision to make.
So, going into this pregnancy, I was reluctant to share the news. I didn't want to worry those I love and who love me, and I didn't want to listen to everyone else.

Then two miracles happened.

The first is that I did not develop HG, but managed to avoid it through early, aggressive treatment with anti-vomiting drugs at high doses, and a dash of pure luck (read Providence). I prayed so very hard for this to happen, but I don't think I truly believed it would. I knew the Lord could spare me, certainly; I also knew the tremendous good work He did for my soul by allowing me to suffer HG last time, so after preparing as best I could, I just left the illness to His will. (Praise Jesus, and thank you St. Gianna Molla for favours received.)

The second is no one has said a single stupid thing about this baby to me. No one! Instead, there has been such an amazing outpouring of good will, congratulations, prayers and love. It seems almost everyone has reacted to the news with real joy.

What a stupendous gift to my family! I had prayed about this too, but also had decided that, besides my own parents, I didn't give a hoot what other people thought.

So, to all my wonderful friends and family, my co-workers and former colleagues -- thank you. Thank you for respecting my family's faith and our decisions. Thank you for loving me through hard times and good ones. And thank you, from the bottom of the two beating hearts in my body right now, for biting your tongue out of love even when you think I am insane.

I love you all. Come on over and snuggle the baby anytime (once he or she has arrived, of course!) And while you're here, do you mind washing some dishes and throwing the burp rags in the washer? Thanks.

Merry Christmas!

From the M. family kids to you and yours, a very merry Christmas!

A little announcement...

The M. family is pleased to announce the arrival of Baby Bean in late May or early June 2010!

I am feeling very well, thanks to good medical care, and we are all greatly looking forward to this little one joining our family.

Onward to a family of.... six?!

Advent, Week One

Wow -- Sting singing my favourite Advent song. Amazing.

During Advent, I often think of Mary: very young, very pregnant, travelling, perhaps frightened and missing her mother and wondering what she got herself into when she said yes to the blindingly bright angel who appeared to her.

My oldest son, A., was due on Christmas Day 2001, although he chose to wait around until the New Year. That Advent, as I dealt with trying to put on my -40C boots and to find a parka that would fit over my mountainous belly, I often thought of Mary, riding a donkey for days on end, swollen and sore and uncomfortable. I was "young" too -- at 24, I was most likely a decade older than Mary had been when she carired our Lord, but 24 is a pretty young mother now. I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Imagine what she must have been thinking.

When she said yes, did she have any idea that she gave the rest of us the Gift of Eternal Life? As she carried her unborn son to Bethlemhem, did she wonder if God, the One who had given her this child, had abandoned her? I don't know, but I think Mary at 14 was a lot wiser than me at 24. There's a reason she was chosen to be the "most highly favoured lady" when she was really still a child.

Happy Week One of Advent -- and thank you for saying yes, Mother.

From a grateful heart

Prayer of Saint Gianna Beretta Molla

Jesus, I promise You to submit myself to all that You permit to befall me,

make me only know Your will.

My most sweet Jesus, infinitely merciful God, most tender Father of souls,

and in a particular way of the most weak, most miserable, most infirm

which You carry with special tenderness between Your divine arms,

I come to You to ask You, through the love and merits of Your Sacred Heart,

the grace to comprehend and to do always Your holy will,

the grace to confide in You,

the grace to rest securely through time and eternity in Your loving divine arms.

Amen

Hubby is home, playing Pokemon with the brood, and I am one grateful wife.

The woman pictured above, and the author of the prayer, is Saint Gianna Molla. Saint Gianna was a working mother, an obstetrician/pediatrician, with three children, a full-time medical practice serving poor mothers and children, and a husband who often travelled for work. Her pregnancies were not easy, because she suffered from hyperemesis gravidarum (http://www.helpher.org/), the same pregnancy condition I suffered with N. Gianna loved fashion and opera and skiing. This is a woman I can fully relate to, a saint for the working moms. I often ask for her prayers, and she has never, ever let me down. She is truly my friend and comfort.

During her fourth pregnancy, doctors found a tumour growing in her uturus, and suggested she have the entire uterus removed. She refused, allowing them to only remove enough of the tumour so her baby could continue growing. She chose to risk her life in order to save the life of her daughter. She died of sepsis several days after Gianna Emmanuela was born, crying aloud, "Oh my Jesus, I love you!"

I prayed to St. Gianna a lot during this last sail. When her husband was away for work, she wrote him letters, and I've read them. She often talks of love in marriage, and Jesus and her deep, abiding faith -- but she also discusses household matters, her own exhaustion, and  how much the children miss him. This woman understands my life.

So, to all the other working moms, Navy wives and those who deal with the challenges of modern work and modern marriage -- may I introduce you to my friend? I guarantee she will be a help and comfort to you, too.

My little choister

A. was in the Chritmas parade this weekend. Yes, I know he's impossible to see in the video, but just listen to the singing! And then listen to N. wonder why her brother isn't joining us on the sidewalk. Too funny.

He's still not sleeping at night

Poor Big I. I think he just misses Daddy.

One thing they don't tell you about children...

... is how inherently selfish and self-absorbed they are.

We try very hard to teach our kids to be empathetic and polite little people who think of others. Sometimes it works, but a lot of the time it doesn't.

An example: Big I. has been refusing to go to sleep at night. He makes noise, talks, jumps in his brother's bed, gets up and demands hugs, etc. It is driving me insane, keeping his siblings awake and is stealing what I have of down time in a day, when I neither parent nor work. When dealing with these antics, I can't make lunches or sign permisison slips or any of the other things I do for them after they sleep and before I sit at the computer.

I've explained to him, over and over, that this is not OK and makes mommy very, very cranky (and lands him in time out and with Xs -- three Xs and he loses his allowance for the week.) Nothing works, and he continues to act out this way rather than telling me what's making him act like this. I can't ignore him, because it wakes the others.

Tonight, an hour and a half of this nonsense led to two Xs, the curtains in the boys' room being pulled down, and waking Toddler N, who promptly started to scream in that "I've woken up sick as a dog" way.

As I tried desperately to give N. Tylenol and take her temperature while checking her for serious symptoms, he kept acting up, yelling and bouncing and squirming on his bed.

Finally, I put N. down, went into his room, turned on the light and chewed him out. Wow, sucky pareting moment right here.

After I finally calmed N. back to sleep, I went back into the room and apologized for losing my temper, and had a good talk with I. I told him I loved him very much and he was a good boy, but these nighttime behaviours were not OK and not good and were hurting everyone in the house. We talked about our agreement this week (he will try to listen the first time and I will try hard not to raise my voice.)

Look, I have no idea if this agreement will work out. All I know is he has to start going to bed. He's five. Bedtime was, for a long time now, the good end to a long day. For the past two months, it's once again become the most stressful time of the day for me. It hasn't been like that since I used to have to sit in their room for hours at night to get them to sleep. I refuse to go back to that.

The hardest part of being alone is dealing with these sorts of things and having no one to take over when you feel you are losing your cool. When C. is here, we spell each other off. When alone, it's just me. Although I'm a good mom, my children are adept at finding something that irritates me and notching it up to torture level. It's exhausting, especially since I can't use healthy guilt (pointing out how his behaviour affects others) with Big I. He has none.

This stuff is hard. Most days I do well, but today was just one of those days.

My brokenness helped me to see it's grace I'm standing on

Thank you, Lord, for getting me through another week.

Memories of Remembrance Day

Remembrance Day has always been an important occasion for me. As a little girl, I donned my Girl Guide uniform and marched in parade after parade, and laid a wreath for my mother's father, who served as a gunner with the Newfoundlanders in the Second World War. Grandfather Spawn served in many places, including Africa, and was reportedly the tallest man in the British Army.

In university, I was fortunate enough to hang around with friends who were also grateful for the sacrifices of our grandfathers and great-grandfathers. I attended at least two ceremonies at the National War Memorial with Kathryn and John; each year, we skipped classes (shame on Carleton for being open on Remembrance Day) and headed down to the War Memorial to do our duty as proud and grateful young people.

John was a former reservist by then, and made a point of introducing us to any soldiers and veterans he knew. I remember making signs one year, saying "Thank you for our freedom, from students of Carleton University."

One year, the War Memorial was under construction; the government held the ceremony right on the lawn of Parliament Hill. We felt strange, walking onto the Hill; it just didn't feel right. Many people looked uneasy.

But then, music swelled from the Peace Tower. It wasn't the tolling of the hour. It was a song played on the clock's carillon.

"What is that?" I said to John and Kathryn. In reply, John began to sing along.

"They'll be blue birds over/ the white cliffs of Dover/ tomorrow, just you wait and see...."

They were playing war-time music and hymns. "The White Cliffs of Dover" faded, followed by "For Those in Peril on the Sea" and then by "To Thee My Country" and many others. And suddenly, holding the ceremony there on the Hill felt right, and the crowd was united in singing.

The best part of the national ceremony, every year, was the veteran's parade. They marched by, some of them using canes, others being pushed in wheelchairs, as thousand of people lined the route. We would clap, and wave and cheer, and yell "Thank you! Thank you!" until our throats were hoarse and our voices gone.

Back then, I remember feeling as if these were the very last veterans of a "true" war for Canada, the last ones to carry that burden. Little did I know that 12 years later, I would be living in a military house on a military base, with one neighbour and friend just returned from Afghanistan last year, haunted by what he's witnessed; another neighbour  who just left for Afghanistan earlier this month; and more friends than I can count who have sent their husbands and wives over to that country. We worry ourselves sick about these friends, and yet we are so proud of their willingness to risk their lives for women and children in another country, women and children who have been brutally oppressed and abused and scarred.

The Hubby is sailing today, and therefore is attending the ship's Remembrance Day ceremony, rather than helping me drag our kids to the local cenotaph. The children and I are watching the national Remembrance Day ceremoney in Ottawa this year, and as always, it's making me cry from a mixture of homesickness and pride and gratitude. But this year, I'm also thinking of D. and C. and the others I know who are modern vets; I'm thinking of my grandfathers and Hubby's grandfather, who served in the First and Second World Wars; and I'm thinking of Hubby, ready and willing to fulfill the same duty these men have.

Of course, like everyone else, I hope that wherever he serves, he stays safe. But I won't prevent him doing what he thinks is right. And I hope the next generation of university students lines the streets of Ottawa to clap and shout thank you to the veterans of this generation, many years from now.

The silvery moonbeams so bright, down through the window give light

The other day, Super A. looked out the front window at dusk, and leaned his golden head against the glass, slick with rain on the other side.

"What a beautiful night," he said, "even though it's raining. It's beautiful. And soon it will be time to get in my bed!"

"You like to sleep, don't you, buddy?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Sleeping is nice!"

As I turned away, I shook my head in amazement. Seven years ago, I never would have believed A. would enthuse about the wonders of going to sleep.

A. was the baby who never slept. EVER. He did not nap for more than 20 minutes at a time. He ate every hour, all night long. If Hubby was working the evening shift, he would insist on staying up and waiting for him until midnight, when I had to work at 5 a.m. His first four years of life, he never slept the night. Ever.

Now, he sleeps from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m., like clockwork every night. He loves to go to bed, and only ever stays up because I. is keeping him awake.

My friend Gail often told me "this too shall pass" during those sleepless nights. I hardly believed her. All I could imagine was endless years of sleep deprivation. And now, A. is a dream to put to bed. He snuggles into his covers after book and kiss, and drifts off to dreamland.

Yet another reason I give out good candy on Hallowe'en

http://www.homestarrunner.com/brainkriegween.html

Long live Homestar! Happy Hallowe'en, everyone.

Another failed mommy badge

The Hubby left this morning for a month-long sail, after being away the week before. He felt rotten about missing Hallowe'en, but he was comforted by the fact that he managed to make it to Big I.'s father-child pumpkin-carving party last night.

Big I. has an absolutely wonderful kindergarten teacher. This same teacher taught A. two years ago, and she is a gem. Hallowe'en is a big time in her class; besides the pumpkin-carving party, she hosts a "Halowe'en Howl" for parents to attend, and then a class party.

The Howl was today, and it is a chance for the children to perfom some Hallowe'en songs for their mommies, daddies and the occasional grandparent. I. was very excited about it, and came home earlier this week clutching a handmade invitation for me. I looked into his sweet little face and had to say, "I'm so sorry, honey, but I can't go."

Work has been insane. Completely, utterly and absolutely insane. We seem to be inundated right now, and everyone is working flat out. Plus, several of my coworkers have been sick, and several more had bought tickets to the U2 concert in Vancouver. The office was half empty today, so the rest of us were running around, madly trying to do the work of two people at once. The whole week has been like this, so I knew there was no way I could miss most of a morning at work.

I work downtown, but our PMQ is about a 30-minute drive west of the city's core -- more like an hour at rush hour. To get to his Howl, I would have had to leave work at 10 a.m. to make it to the school, sit through the 30-minute party, then head immediately back to work, arriving back around noon (and that's with the van, not by bus.) Two hours to make a half hour party. I knew it just wasn't possible.

He was disappointed, but seemed to perk up when I suggested he invite V., the nanny, and his sister N. V., my saving grace in my working-parent hell, took meticulous video of the entire thing, which I sat down and watched in full just now. By the end, I was sobbing.

Big I., my boisterous, funny and fun-loving guy, just stands there during all the songs. No singing, no actions, no jumping and clapping. He actually turns his back on the teacher for several minutes and just stands there  with his head hanging down and his lip out. He missed me so much he didn't even want to participate.

When I got home, he told me he has enjoyed the Howl, but he also pointed out, "C.'s mommy was there. Her mommy made it to the Howl." C.'s mom is an at-home mother, you see.

My friend Karan invented the Failed Mommies Club awhile ago, for those mothers who just don't make the mommy grade nowadays (and so said mommies can get together now and then and drink wine.) I think I earned another Failed Mommy badge today for:

1. missing my son's Hallowe'en school event;
2. sending the nanny with a videocamera instead (and even having a nanny in the first place -- tut, tut!);
3. doing it on the day his father sailed for a month;
4. working a demanding career downtown instead of a mom job or (as the much smarter mommies do) keeping the demanding career but working from home; and
5. working so far from home that these sorts of events are sometimes impossible.

Never mind the homework I do with A. every night, or the fact that tonight I cooked a healthy meal, cleaned up, baked cookies with the kids for the actual Hallowe'en party tomorrow, made A. get a shower, made lunches and put all three kids to bed alone. No matter how super a mother you are, you are always a failure when you break your child's heart.

A letter to the person who writes the school newsletter

Dear Educator Administrator Education Professional Teacher, Principal or Vice-Principal who writes the school newsletter:

You recently sent a school newsletter home in my son's backpack, a week after the date printed on the top. The events section listed two events at the school earlier this week, one of which I completely missed. For the other one, I had to call half the mommies in the class until one of them knew the time we were supposed to show up. The newsletter asked parents to call and volunteer for the events. I would have raised my hand, but I had no idea you needed help, since the newsletter was a week late.

Most of the parents at our school are pretty smart, with lots of common sense, but few of us have PhDs in educational theory and jargon. I have an honours degree, and I still scratch my head over the newsletter when it is filled with phrases such as "there are many initiatives/programs that the school has implemented in supporting students." What are you really trying to say? First off, you are misusing the word "initiative;" it does not mean a program. It means personal drive or ambition. And what do you really mean when you say you have implemented programs that support students? Are you talking about school counsellors? Anti-bullying programs? Hall monitors? By saying "supportive programs", you don't have to get specific, which means you are communicating essentially nothing to the parent. And what do you mean by implemented? Did you put up a "bullies suck" poster and walk away? What has the school achieved in its program? Have incidents of bullying gone down? Give me details.

When you use big, fancy and vague words, you are not communicating with parents. You are stressing us out as we try to decipher what the bafflegab really means as we read the newsletter while cheering a soccer team or cooking dinner.

Even worse is the lack of correct grammar and punctuation (and sometimes spelling!) in these newsletters. Quotation marks are not used for emphasis. Use bold. Or italics. Anything other than "SCARE QUOTES WITH CAPS."

You don't need to capitalize every third word. In School Suspension may look impressive to you, but it's poor grammar. You're giving me a face tic. Stop it.

Finally, please stop calling yourselves administrators and educators. I don't care about your job classification. I care about what you actually do in my child's school. Are you in charge? Then you're the principal or vice-principal. Do you teach? Then you're a teacher. Stop confusing us with pompous titles.

I know your hearts are in the right place. I know this is a terrific school, and my kids love attending it. I know you have great teachers; both of my boys have dream teachers.

Please don't make me pull out my old grease pen and send back the newsletter after I vet it.

Toddler N. gives a vocabulary lesson

Hubby: I wish we had some wieners to put in these beans.

Big. I.: What's a wiener?

Super A.: It's a hot dog.

Toddler N.: No, a wiener isn't a hot dog. A wiener is a penis!

Anyone want a faulty gall bladder?

If you do, you're more than free to help yourself to mine.

I had what was probably a gall stones attack two nights ago. Except for labour and miscarriage, it was the most painful experience of my life.

So now I am on an extreme low-fat diet. Nothing can enter my mouth with more than three grams of fat. Do you know how little fat that is? Two slices of bread have about a gram to two grams of fat. Half a chicken breast has about two grams. Bananas have about 4 grams.

I am seriously ticked off.

Bright side: this should help me lose weight

Honesty and privacy

I kept a journal from the ages of 13 to 18, pouring my thoughts and dreams and aspirations, my observations of myself and others, and my spare story ideas into its pages. I got the idea from three sources: a friend who journaled (as her mother journaled before her), the diary of Anne Frank (which I first read at age 12) and the published journals of my favourite author, L.M. Montgomery.

While two of those journals were published works, only one of these authors had ever written a journal with some awareness it might later be published. Montgomery kept detailed and voluminous handwritten journals, but she later meticulously typed and edited volumes for publication after her death. Although she tried very hard to be honest and bare in her edited version, leaving little out, there are things she dropped for public consumption. Most of these had to do with her son Chester, who turned out to be a major disappointment to her.

When I started this blog almost three years ago, it had a purpose: to give an honest and thorough account of a woman alone with three children in the sub-Arctic for five months, while her husband attempted to pass Basic Officer Training with the Canadian Forces. I think I gave a fairly honest and accurate account of that experience, while also posting pictures of the children Hubby could enjoy whenever he got five minutes in front of a computer.

When we were reunited and moved, the purpose of this blog changed. It became more of a personal ranting and writing spot, a place to share thoughts and ideas, religious beliefs and personal causes. I think it is less successful in this, less satisfying to the reader, but for the few who read, it suffices.

Back when I was a reporter (I shall return...), I often told people new to the reporting process who were telling me personal stories to self-edit. "I have every right to ask you any question I please, and you have every right to refuse to answer it," I would say. "Edit yourself before you say it, because once I know it, it's too late. Take your time and think about what you want to tell me about you, but be as honest as you can be." People always appreciated the advice.

I find I often self-edit on this blog, and leave out ideas I would love to write about. Although I have many reasons for this, the main one is simple: I don't want to hurt someone in my life.

So I limit what I write about the children's misbehaviour as they grow. I leave out information I don't want extended family members to discover. I curtail my need to write about some relationships. In the end, protecting others' privacy is worth it.

But I admire writers who write without fear of the consequences. I think they give the rest of us the gift of truth about our shared human experience.

So if you wonder why I haven't written lately, I probably have a blog post I am dying to share... but I've curtailed myself.

I think I need to restart my paper and pen journal.

To the military families...

... especially those who have sacrificed their loved ones for the rest of us.

Hubby sails back in two days. Can't wait.