“Our small group is going paintballing” he tells me. “I saw that” I reply, hoping to end the conversation with my disinterest. “I signed us up.” “I hope” I sigh, “that by us, you mean you.” “You’re coming!” He laughs “it’s fun, you’re going to love it.” We’ve been married almost 15 years.  He’s spent well over 2 of those years at war, as a combat soldier. We were just 20 the first time he left.  The first 3 deployments happened almost like clockwork, 2 years apart.  He just returned from his 4th this spring. He is pulling out clothes in the morning “we can both wear a pair of my combats.” I stare at him “uh… you realize you have 50lbs on me.” “It’s not a fashion show.”  He’s holding them up to me.  “They cinch.  Paint washes off them well.” “I didn’t sign up for this” I huff while I pull them on. I feel like those first deployments happened quickly and I didn’t have a lot of time to process.  Dh doesn’t talk about his time away much.  I was overwhelmed at home with the kids while he was gone each time.  By the middle of the third, it was sinking in harder.  The casualties were close to home.  I spent the last day of Dh’s 3rd deployment at a funeral for a member of his squadron.  It hadn’t been the first. I don’t know why the fear hadn’t caught me before as…