So a while back I took a look through the blogs I read regularly and realized I have quite a few blogs I read that talk about a struggle with infertility. I don’t know how that ended up that way, but I figured I maybe had something to learn. I clearly know nothing about the subject. In fact, the more I read the more I started to just feel overall BAD about the hurts and struggles I’ve had coping with my unplanned pregnancies. For a few days I considered taking down or re-writing all the stories about my children to somehow make them less hurtful for those struggling to concieve. The I realized that wasen’t the answer either. I can’t change who I am or how very different my struggles have been from those of somone dealing with infirtility. But as someone who regularly and with gusto manages to put my foot in my mouth, I could make an effort to learn what kinds of things I could do to offer support. So I asked the annoyed army wife if she would consider writing me a guest post about what the ‘right’ things to say are to someone struggling to concieve. And she did! I am very grateful for her insight and willingness to share some of what helps and hurts her in her journey. So check it out! And when you’re done, click on over to read more of the annoyed army wife. She’s not always annoyed, but she is hilarious and awesome! __________________________________________________________________ What I Want To Hear… Or how to support a friend struggling with…
So, there’s a guy over at the view from here who writes about being a missionary in Costa Rica. And today, I’m guest posting over there while his life is crazy busy doing super important missionary stuff. You can see my mostly lame comments over there today at the view from here. Go ahead, stop in, be his friend. He is lots of fun to read and how can you go wrong with a blog that includes posts on using a coke bottle as a toilet, or having a doctor play ‘fruit ninja’ with your junk? That’s right. You cannot. So go. Pretty please? the view from here. (in case you missed it, that’s a lot of links to my post there. Cause I really, really want you to go check it out…
No one had ever asked me to be a bridesmaid before and well, that seems like a sad testament to me at 30 years old that I don’t seem like bridesmaid material. I was starting to wonder what kind of friend I am that I’ve never been included in someones big day. BUT all was not lost because this past weekend, I was a bridesmaid. And because I like to delight (bore) you with fascinating (lame) lessons that I learn when doing things other people don’t find that interesting, I give you what I learned as a bridesmaid: 1. Strapless dresses don’t stay put. I have never in my life worn something strapless before, but my bridesmaid dress was. It was very pretty and I am grateful for the good taste of the bride, but I spent most of the night, along with the other bridesmaids, hiking it up. Why does it look so natural in movies? 2. If someone locks your keys in your car on a hot day with the bouquet inside an hour before the wedding when you and all the bridesmaids and bride are still 30 minutes away from the ceremony location….. eventually you will find a tow company who will feel sorry enough for you to come right away to unlock you. 3. Next time you panic because your automatic car doesn’t seem to be shifting properly, check what gear you put it in. L is apparently not the same as D. 4. Being a bridesmaid is expensive, time consuming, stressful, nerve-wracking…. and totally worth it. Being a part of someones day is a great feeling. The bride was beautiful and the…
I write most of my blogs in my head while running. I need to focus off of the screaming lungs and the aching calves. So I write in my head. Usually, what I write is never published. A lot of the time, I just disappear into old memories or stories that never come out. This week, it seemed to be the same memory, over and over. It was of a funeral. One I was attending, not really knowing if I should, for a 25 year old soldier who had been serving with Dh. He had been my husband’s comrade, killed by an IED days before they were all coming home. I felt like I had no business being at that funeral, like I was intruding on their pain, but there I was with 2 other military wives, sitting in the back. And soldiers brought in the casket, draped in the flag. And I had it all together. Even through the bagpipes, the casket, the ceremony. I may have mentioned I am not a crier? I am not. And I wasn’t. Until I saw him. Every soldier who is killed overseas has an escort home. A comrade who will travel with him and stay with his fallen friend until he is buried. Everyone else taking part in the funeral is wearing their best. Shined, polished, looking strong and formal to lay one of their own to rest. From the pallbearers to the guests, every military member is in full dress uniform. Except for the escort. He’s exhausted, you can tell just by looking at him. His face is pale and his eyes are red. His last few days have been made up of sitting next to grieving family, helping with funeral arrangements and making sure…
Reasons I Need Therapy Thursday – Wind. Honestly, it drives me crazy. And I live no where near the ocean, where I hear it’s worse. I live on the prairies. With minimal wind. But it’s been an abnormally windy spring and summer and I will lose my mind soon. Wind freaks me out and makes me angry. I believe there is scientific evidence to back my claims that it can make you mental. – Turning left at an uncontrolled intersections. You wait and there’s no one coming on the right, but someone on the left. Than the opposite. Then there’s a gap but is it big enough? Do you risk it? Are you risking the wrath of the people behind you if you don’t? What about the guy across from you, is he going to try and go before you? Ahhhh! (And now you are mentally thinking how annoying of a driver I must be. I promise, I’m actually not bad. All this happens in my head with minimal poor driving choices). – When one kid gets sick and no one else does for a few days. I want to follow the other 2 around with a bucket. Every time they act ‘off’ I ask if they are going to throw up. Then when I wake up in the night I panic thinking I’m getting sick. Just. Get. It. Over. With. – Tornado watches. I may have mentioned I have a fear of extreme weather. Well, since I live on the Prairies, I don’t get hurricanes…
Last week I took my kids in for their yearly physical at the Pediatrician’s office. And to show what good a mom I am, it turns out when they typed into the computer they learned that my oldest hadn’t been there since 2007. 4 years, no check-up. What? He’s healthy….. don’t judge me. So anyways, they were all weighed and measured and the obligatory giggle was had over their growth or lack there of, and then they were poked and prodded a little and given a clean bill of health. Except when the Doctor is putting his stethoscope on Monster’s chest, he takes a closer look at his neck. He rubs his hand over a spot a few times, then bends Monster’s head to look closer. At first, I’m a little puzzled. Then I remember…. Monster has a white blotch of skin on his neck and shoulder by his collarbone on one side. It’s been there…. for years I think. It came around the wax spilling incident and in my head I think I thought that was the cause of it. But the Doctor dismisses that idea when I say it since Monster never had any wound or injury from the wax that would cause a scar like that. Besides, it’s not a scar. At least, as far as he can tell. It’s a lack of pigment. Now, my kids are white. WHITE. Not like, yes, they are Caucasian white. Like HOLY CRAP YOU LIGHT UP A ROOM WITH YOUR SKIN white. Freckles doesn’t tan, his freckles connect. Drama…
When going through the MOUNDS of paper my son brought home from school from this year, I found this. It’s priceless. And it made me think what he thinks my husband does all day at work! Now I am not a keeper of stuff. I keep a few things each year per kid. I’m not going to keep it all. What will he do with boxes of old colouring pages and math equations? But this, this is a keeper. What I want to be when I Grow Up When I grow up I want to be in the army. I want to be in the military because my dad is in the military. I also want to blow stuff up so I can keep our country free. I will train hard to rank up. I will listen to my boss, do parades and shoot from a tank. I will be still at attention. I will have to know to be sneaky. I will have to listen to commands to know what to do. I’ll shoot at targets and exercise. When I’m a sargent I will have a stick. I’ll yell at my men. By (Freckles) So this made me want to write a reply. One I will keep with it. And if in fact this is the choice my son makes when he grows up, I will remind myself the kind of mom I wanted to be when I grew up. Because the older he gets the harder I feel like it will be to do this army thing from the Mom’s perspective, and not the wives. What will happen when I have to let…
You can call me spoiled names all you want but growing up, we had a Summer Cottage in Vermont that had been passed through generations to my mom. It backed onto Lake Memphremagog and was absolutely beautiful. We lived there from the moment school let out until right before it started again. Because of this for the entire time we lived in Montreal we had no need for camping. When I was 8ish we moved from Montreal across the country and no longer within practical travelling distance from the Cottage. But still, Camping wasn’t something we did. Aside from the odd Girl Guide trip I never camped as a child. When I graduated high school, it was the thing to do for After-Grad to camp for a weekend long Graduation Party. I stayed in the closest hotel. Why? Cause I don’t like camping. I realize this is a snobby sounding thing to say. Some people might even be shocked and appalled. Let me just point out that this has nothing to do with high-class. I spent my last Saturday night at a small town Rodeo Demolition Derby that at one point had Combines smashing into each other for fun. Clearly it has nothing to do with me feeling I am “too posh” for camping. I just. don’t. like. it. I actually wish I did. But I don’t. Who knows. Maybe I will one day. But not today. So now I find myself living in Camping Country. I mean, you just don’t live in a small town in the Canadian Prairies without spending every available Summer weekend out with the…
My husband grew up a military brat in the PMQ’s all over Canada. From Calgary to Kingston to Bordon to Petawawa and then Germany before landing back in Calgary where his dad retired, he saw a lot of army life. And he saw a lot of army wives. So when we married, he had an image in his head. Either we lived off base and pretended that he had ‘just another job’ and I never involved myself in any way with military life, or I became one of ‘those wives’. And apparently, ‘those’ wives sit their front porch of their PMQ gossiping and smoking, wearing their hubby’s PT gear and yelling in a raspy voice to their 6 kids that they let run around dirty in the neighborhood before drinking the night away with other men while their husbands are away. In dh’s eyes, there was no middle ground between those two extremes. It’s funny, my mother in law was nothing like this, and we know plenty of really fabulous military wives, but he just didn’t shake this one misconception. So after a year of living in the PMQ’s (base housing), we moved as quick as we could afford it to a town off base. He had his life at work and very rarely did we make any effort to be a part of that life as a family. Slowly, all that has changed. I realized this once when we were laying together on the couch talking after he had got home from work. He had taken off his uniform and thrown some jeans on, but he had left on the green t-shirt from work. And…
Today, I am featured on Mrs. O’s page! How cool is that, I am featured somewhere! (Thanks Mrs. O!) So, you know, check her and her awesome blog out. Make me look like one of the cool kids with friends. Say Hi while you’re there cause that’s the nice thing to do. And if you’re here from Mrs. O’s, hi! I made my blog prettier just for you! So thanks for coming. Feel free to check out all the new little buttons at the top that tell you all about me and my fam. I know that the info I filled out on the form for Mrs. O’s was really lame so I appreciate that you came here anyways. I’m no good at “About Me” questions. Want more proof? Check out my “About Me” page. Thanks for visiting…
