Year 15 of 3

When I was 18 we were sitting in this park by Dh’s parent’s house.

I was a couple months into my first year in college and Dh was leaving in the morning for St. Jean, Quebec where he would start Basic Training for the Canadian Army.

The drama.

Oh, friends, the drama of the 2 of us, me blubbering, sitting on the blanket at our makeshift picnic at the park, terrified to be without him, completely lacking in independence or maturity.

A mess. I was a mess. There’s a picture, I can’t find it. That’s probably for the best.

The next morning his parents dropped him off at the recruiting center and he took a bus to the airport and off he went.

His mom had his room turned into a craft room before that plane landed.

Without cellphones we racked up ludicrous collect call long distance bills. He made just over $500 paycheck. Most of it paid for the phone bill. Then he couldn’t use the phone and I thought that might be the worst thing that could ever, possibly happen. Ever.

Oh.

To be 18 again.

When he left, it was no surprise. He’s the 5th generation in his family to enlist.

He wanted to be a police officer he thought. That meant go to college or join the army to earn the life experience needed to apply, so he joined the army because he didn’t want to go back to school.

3 years.

He signed that initial 3 year contract. He told me when it was up, he’s apply to the police and if he was still too young at 21, he’d sign another 3 years and try again.

But that was IT.

3 years.

When his 3 year contract was coming up he was in Afghanistan, so he re-signed.

When the next one came up, he was back in Afghanistan. He put off signing that one and actually did apply to the local police force when he returned, but it wasn’t to be. The door was shut hard. Hard. It made no sense at the time, there was no reason, it was through nothing he did or couldn’t do. It was just shut, as though trying to tell us in the most obvious way that it wasn’t supposed to be that way, no matter how much we thought it, willed it or hoped for it.

With the door shut, that next deployment to Afghanistan happened pretty quickly.

After that, the truth was I wasn’t married to a guy with a job in the military.

I was married to a soldier.

As if there had been any doubt before.

Today marks year 15 of 3.

I’m not 18 anymore and neither is he.

There’s much less drama each time he gets on that plane, more laughter than tears because we’ve so much more experience saying ‘see you later’.

I was so proud of that kid in basic training.

When I look at us now, it’s hard to believe that was ever even us.

But it does me good to remember it WAS. It was and I’m no better than she was, only a little more experienced and though I could never have imagined, so much more in love.

Every day for the last 15 years Dh has proven over and over that he is the kind of man that can be a husband, a father and a soldier. Since he was 18 he’s cared for, supported, looked after and protected me. From my side or halfway around the world.

And though I JUST learned how to read rank on a uniform and now it’s changing.

And though I still don’t understand what half the acronyms mean.

And though I still hurry up and wait with the least patience ever exhibited by a military spouse in the history of the army.

I am still here.

3 Combat deployments, a handful of domestic operations, courses, exercises, training, 3 cities, 3 houses, 3 kids and all those times I’ve said ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE JUST MARRIED THE &*$^@ ARMY.’

After 15 years we’re no longer the new kids on the block but we still have so much to learn.

And who knows, maybe one day the army will realize how long it’s been and he’ll get that fancy CD medal he was due 3 years ago.

Or not.

It doesn’t matter, they don’t have to remember it all.

I do.

So far, it’s bee the longest 3 years I could have imagined.

Couldn’t see it any other way.

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