And a baby came out! {Landon's Birth Story}

The subject of this story is currently in his little hospital bassinet/pod/thing, making adorable sounds and waving his arms around like he did so much in utero. He's always happiest in someone's arms, so he's sacrificing for a cause right now. However, after being fed every hour this morning, changed, and then worshiped by two adoring parents, little Landon is in no danger of feeling unloved.

Yes, Landon. Landon Edward Maurer, according to all documentation and #landonedward if you happen to be following my instagram obsession.

Landon's due date was February 3rd, and despite every bit of knowledge that assured me a due date is simply a guesstimate in a 4-5 week span, we felt sad and disappointed that he had not made his appearance.  It was more than just typical 9 month exhaustion  and aches (for me) and eagerness to meet his firstborn (for Stephen) that had us staring wistfully at the calendar. Uncle Sam had called and Stephen was needed elsewhere and soon, so soon that it cut into the timeline that medical professionals and mothers usually use while waiting for baby to appear au natural. I didn't write a birth plan, but if I had, I would've written two main points: I wanted us all alive and us all to be there. With that second crucial point in jeopardy, my body dilated to a 1, and Landon sitting surprisingly high, my doctor and I talked induction.

We made tentative plans for a charming notion called cervical ripening via a small pill called Cytotek. This procedure would first occur late Wednesday night (February 5th), then again early Thursday morning (February 6th), and then I would begin Pitocin Thursday morning around the start of business hours. Those plans being made, I told everyone that my induction was scheduled for Thursday morning--provided Labor and Delivery wasn't too busy--and that we should meet Landon by the weekend.

Stephen was gone for his usual fourteen hour work day on Wednesday, and arrived home at 5 PM tired, sleepy, and with a head full of work. We decided that he would drive me the 45 minute to the hospital, help me get settled in, then go home for a full night's sleep, since the actual induction wouldn't be until the morning. Plus, someone had just handed him some last minute things to do.  But as Google and most women will tell you, inductions take a while...

We got to Labor and Delivery just before 8:30 PM on Wednesday, February 5th. The nurses were relaxed, and it took them forever to even find a vein to start an IV. The delivery room looked more like a darling hotel room, complete with a couch and shutters on the window, and golden, relaxed lighting. Stephen decided to stay the night with me, then run back to the apartment and base in the morning.

At 10:30 PM, I was given the first dose of Cytotek, showed the difference between baby's heart rate graph and my contraction graph, and learned that the annoying back cramps I'd had occasionally for around a week, and all day that day,  were actually mild contractions. Mild, unhelpful contractions.

We settled in, Stephen's frame crunched up on a supremely narrow couch, and my aching, nine month pregnant body on a hospital bed that couldn't be comfortable. Still, we were together, and the menstrual cramp-like ache in my back now had a name.

At 1:45 AM, my attention was rudely jerked away from browsing Reddit, as a sharp, intense pain filled my back and uterus, and I felt decidedly unromantic pop out liquid burst from me spontaneously.

Um,  ow. That hurt. Was that a real contraction? And did my water just break?

I waddled to the bathroom, confirmed that the liquid was not the contents of my bladder, and decided that I wanted my dull cramps back. A nurse came in, officially confirmed what I suspected, reminded me that things would get more intense, and asked if I wanted to wake Stephen. I didn't. It was not even 2 AM, he'd been asleep for an hour and awake for 22 hours before that. We had a long day (and night, at least) ahead of anyways, or so I thought.

15 minutes later, Stephen was woken up to the sound of my moaning, as sharp, angry contractions grabbed my back at a seemingly rapid pace. I felt simultaneously uncomfortable and annoyed that I was already in so much discomfort at barely a 2 dilation and the start of labor.

The next hour was a hellish one. The frontal contraction I'd experienced when my water broken is still the only experience I've had with non-back labor. Lying down, sitting, squatting, standing and swaying--every position still brought forth acute agony as my body sprinted into labor and my lower back became a living nightmare. My contractions were a minute apart and thirty seconds long, giving me exactly thirty seconds to recover before my body was plunged into the abyss again. It was the type of raw, brutal labor only Pitocin is supposed to bring, and I found myself dying mentally as my brain mocked me for being in such pain, and still dilated at a 2.

I went through all the painful cliches that are supposed to happen at transition--swearing, vomiting, nearly blacking out, freaking out, begging for it to stop--all the while assuming that this pain was only the beginning of a day-long marathon. It'd always been my plan to have an epidural, so the nurse called for that doctor once my 30 second recovery periods were taken up by vomiting. It took longer than necessary to start the epidural, mostly because I was afraid of sitting down during a contraction. Thankfully, the L&D nurse used her strictest voice, told me to sit, grabbed my hands, and forcing me to look into her safe, brown eyes, breathed with me. Once my brain accepted that sitting would actually bring relief--and not countless more hours of untold pain--I managed to be a decent breather. The relief from the epidural felt almost instant, and as my body slowly became able to tolerate the constant contractions, the nurses told me what I'd experienced wasn't normal.

• It wasn't normal to have constant contractions a minute apart, focused in the back, and only be dilated at 2
• It wasn't normal for labor to start that intensely and get to that level of worse in a matter of minutes
• And it was certainly not normal for labor that intense to start from one dose of the cervix ripening pill Cytotek. 

I had been no where near Pitocin, yet I'd been in Pitocin  misery and was well into labor. 

The next 3.5 hours were blissful, as my body felt more comfortable than it had in months. I gazed dreamily at Stephen, and wished he could experience the wonder of an epidural, too. My body started progressing, now that I could do fun things such as breathe, and my blood pressure rushed down the 50 points it had earlier climbed. The nurses came in every half an hour to change my position in bed, which seemed odd to me, but I was too comfortable to care. They gave me a shot to slow my contractions down, since they were still slamming my body every minute, but my uterus had other plans. Whenever a new person would come in the room, he/she would invariably ask "Pitocin?" and be greeted with an incredulous "no, just cervix ripening."

Just before 7 AM, the nurse checked me and told me that I was almost at a 5 and complimented me on my ability to still lift myself with my legs.

Then my OB came in...

While the epidural had blessedly taken away my body's ability to feel the minute-by-minute contractions, and had relaxed my body enough for it to progress, the rate of the contractions hadn't slowed. Landon was getting slammed by too strong-contractions, while my cervix progressed at a slower (and more reasonable) rate. He also wasn't dropping to where he needed to be, although no one was sure why. My doctor explained that, if I had actually gotten to the induction stage with Pitocin, it would be a simple matter of easing up on the amount of Pit. But I hadn't. My body had taken the warm up medicine and proceeded to try and run a marathon with it.

And of course, there was oxygen deprivation. While Landon was still healthy, his heart rate kept dipping lower than it should and he kept getting bursts of time without oxygen. My OB was very gentle, and not wanting a precipitous C-section, checked me twice more within 45 minutes, hoping that my dilation would move up to an 8. However, it didn't.

I quickly texted my mom and mother in law, who were on their way, that I might be in surgery by the time they actually arrived at the hospital. My mom, like any mother, was instantly worried about a her daughter getting a surprise C-section, but after hearing how oddly my labor was going, was assured that no one was forcing an necessary procedure. 

By the start of 8:00 AM, I was prepped and in the OR. 12 hours before, I'd assumed that would be when I'd begin Pitocin and the labor process--NOT when I'd be neatly cut open so that my baby could enter the world. The medical team was fantastic, as the OBs were gentle, kind folks, the anesthesiologist was a hilarious kindred spirit, and the nurses happy to be assisting in an urgent C-section, rather than an emergency. Plus, everyone wanted to see how my odd labor would end, and if the baby who wouldn't drop was actually huge or just stubborn.

I had the requisite operating room chills and shivers--much preferable to intense back labor in my opinion. The anesthesiologist chatted the entire time, and I drifted comfortably from listening to her stories to paying attention to the random tugging going around in my abdomen. Stephen was just pulling the camera out to prep it for Landon's birth when...he saw his son emerge. We'd been warned that he might not cry right away, so I was surprised when I heard his sweet grunts, informing the world that it really was too cold for his pink skin.

The OR was filled with...

"He's so pink!"

"Finally, a cute one!"

"Aww, look at that hair!"

"His head is huge! No wonder he didn't fit!"

And other accolades, as Landon began his first moments on earth. His official birth time was charted at 8:20 AM in the morning, ten hours after I had been given one, tiny pill. He arrived delightfully pink, surprisingly alert, a short, round 8lbs, 2 oz, and 19.5 inches, and dark hair crowned his massive 37 centimeter head, that he had been dutifully been trying to descend through my pelvis, only at a slight angle. I was delighted that I hadn't inadvertently grown a 10 pound baby, and that it really was a matter of the predicted large Maurer head and a bad angle.  Landon scored an impressive 9.9 on his APGAR, the missing .10 "because C-sections never get 10s" or something. 

He was bundled up and placed in a delighted Stephen's arms, and then brought over to my head and shoulders--while my torso was being masterfully stitched up. While I was gazing in awe at my newborn son, I was complimented on my "young, tight muscles", and Stephen actually got to record the event, something that I had forbidden with a vaginal birth. 

Happy--because I had my husband beside me, my baby in my arms, and muscles in my belly

"I'm in love."

It's been 48 hours since Landon's birth, and they have been beautiful hours. I've been recovering faster than even my lovely, optimistic doctors , and was just cleared to leave tomorrow morning since they're playing it safe. 

Landon has had none of the problems people often associate with inductions/epidurals/ and c-sections. He is absurdly healthy, alert, has a ridiculously strong latch (owie), and we are working hard to welcome my milk in!

Stephen has taken the role of daddy seamlessly, balancing work, baby worship, and wife doting beautifully.

Our little family now numbers three and we are so, so, so happy.

This morning we indulged in drooling over our baby, and he is already a spoiled prince, ready to receive homage.

I don't know why God chose to bless us with this darling. We certainly don't deserve him, but how we do adore him. 

Today I know this: I have been extraordinarily blessed by God. I have an amazing husband that got to be with me at the birth of our darling son, despite crazy extenuating circumstances. I had a short, accelerated, partially unexplained labor that lead to a fantastic c-section and recovery. I am blessed. 

Note: at the eleventh hour, Uncle Sam changed his mind, causing father, mother, and child to not be separated for months and months only a few days post birth. So I ended up with a baby, an awesome c-section scar, and a husband at home. 

40 Weeks Pregnant [Things that should not exist]

{I changed the name of the blog. Porque? Mostly because I have commitment issues and a little because it better exemplifies what this year will bring.}


They say that 40 years of age is the big 40.  I'm pretty sure "they" are a group of balding, dumpy men, though. Most women look fantastic at forty years of age. No, the big 40 is forty weeks pregnant. Also known as a billion years plus a rhino pregnant.

There's just no way to look graceful at 40 weeks. I pulled it off until 37. I still was getting lots of "you're so cute" and "wow, how are you three weeks from your due date" at my baby shower at 36 weeks and 5 days. But something about these last three weeks of pregnancy has done absurd things to me. I get the she's going to have the baby RIGHT HERE looks if I dare go out. It's true. I totally could have the baby right there. Except, he's more than delighted to chill in his Susie-based incubator.

And I totally get it, babycakes. It's warm, dark, and cozy in there. You get to bounce around and poke me, and listen to fun booming sounds as your daddy games. It makes perfect sense.

Only, I can't sleep anymore because you're so huge. If I try to walk at a reasonable pace, I look absurd. I get so hungry sometimes that I start crying like a toddler because, irrationally, nothing looks good. So pretty please, babycakes, can you come out soon?

I'm really not sure where else on my sturdy 5'3 frame I'm supposed to put you. Suggestions?

I know it's not summer and fruit season, but I'm pretty sure I need to have this conversation with people:

On the bright side, my maternity jeans finally fit! It only took nine months and two hearty cycles of dryer shrinking to get them to not fall down!  Hurray!  Of course, I have a fantastic jogging stroller, and I just found my Jillian Michaels DVD, so the new fit will be rather short lived. 

I know you're an erudite baby, already, and are aware that babies often get to live in their mommies for an extra two weeks. Unfortunately, dear child, you do not get that privilege. Uncle Sam has us on a tight timeline, so you need to make your presence known and soon. Otherwise, I get to go through the "I" word (induction) just to fetch you in time. 

So, out, out, out, my child. 

I'd threaten to ground you for a thousand years, but I think grounding is the most absurd of punishments. Practicing correct Latin noun declension? Perhaps.

But truly, get out, baby. I want to write your birth story.

I fail at Philippians 2:3

Oh, yes. I have a blog, that I never wanted to turn into only a baby update center. Woops.

I really wanted to write more--I did. Stories, ideas, arguments--they would all flood my mind. But then I'd fall asleep, or find an assignment, or just forget. There were other posts, too. Sad posts, heavy posts, introspective posts. One of those escaped the draft folder and is somewhere in the archives. If you can find it, read it, and determine just exactly what I'm talking about, then delicious imaginary cookies for you.

And ramble et al.

However,  most posts never were written. But this year is bringing so much change to my life--a  baby, a degree, some temporary heartache--it's all bringing the fulfillment of so many of my obsessive goals.

I've worked really hard to graduate debt free. Really hard. So hard that I talk far too much about it. I use it in job interviews, and talk about it in "class introductions". It's an absurdly important part of my life. This is not to say that I regret sharing my experiences or writing "how tos" because I truly think it's important for young people to know that there is another way. Rather, though, I'm glad this period of life is coming to an end. I'm thankful that I can focus intensely on something else. My education isn't ending--I still want a teaching credential and grad school looks so enticing. But I'll take it slower. The cost is lower and, while I'll be frugal and pay with cash, the intensity will be funneled elsewhere. I hope.

Intensity and goals: mountains, duh. Plus, picture of Mt. Shasta, which is a shout out to northern California. 

The problem is: I like being that girl. The one who does so much and causes others to look...slow. I have a problem with glorifying being busy. It's a form of type A personality, a need to do so much. It's a form of ego--I can do this much. It's a form of that cardinal sin: pride--look how much I can do.

It starts innocently enough, but then it grows into something more sinister. Ironically, the thing most people people probably most I'm prideful about (debt free degrees) is the thing that I'm probably least prideful about. Proud of it? Naturally. Prideful, in that Biblical sin way? Not really. It's been a hard, exhausting road. The current climate makes it seem impossible. I only began the journey because I had to. And I finished it because I was too obstinate to quit.

No, it's weird things like being too busy with work and school to do much else. It's difficulties like having my husband  gone for a painfully long time this year. It's trying so hard to not be pregnant and hinder the day's work at my job that I come home sick and out of breath. Yet deep down, I'm proud of those things. It's absurd, really.

I'm driven by ego, by the desire to be more than mediocre, to stand out, but I still avoid perfection (because perfectionists annoy me). I don't regret working hard and going to school. I don't regret doing my job well, even when my body was screaming. (Well, kinda. Ouch.) I don't regret gearing myself up mentally for an emotionally arduous year. (Although, if this year would go by quickly, then muchos gracias from the depths of my heart.)

However, for 2014 I'm going to focus intently on--

Stopping the idolization of busyness, of hardship, of trials. 
 I won't stop working, struggling, and thanking God for pulling me through. But I'm going to work on minding my ego (before it smacks me in the face) and relishing the beautiful parts of life, too.
I don't want to change my personality. I like being busy. I like working hard. I like finding difficult goals. But I want to find a balance along the way. But I'm supposed to find peace from God in the busyness. Solace in Him in hardship. I'm supposed to find His love and grace amid the trials. Instead, I too often just dig deeper and find another root of stubborn ambition to propel me forward. I'm a rather obtuse learner, it would seem.
Because, when I focus on the moment--like the fact that the 36 week gestated baby inside of me is poking me continuously--instead of how I'll achieve less this year than I wanted to--I'm happier. (Note to self: dear, stop with the dash marks. You're scaring everyone.) I'm at peace. And I'm thankful.

For others who are driven by ego and ambition, how do you balance goals with pride? How do you find the medium between narcissism and consciously teaching others?



Ahem, Susie... (Philippians 2:3) Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves.

He'll Soon Be Gone

This is my grown up thanksgiving prayer.
I'm thankful that today my husband is with me, that (Lord willing) he'll be with me on Thanksgiving.
I'm thankful for the little home we share, the laughter, the love, and the bond that grows deeper every day.
I'm thankful for the days I wake up and he's besides me--or realistically--poking me to turn off my alarm and get ready for work.

The days we spend together are growing shorter, and soon it will be time for him to go.
I want to be selfish and demand a world where he doesn't leave, but that's ridiculous.
It's his job. It's what he signed up for. It's what I knew would be my reality.

I know what the pain of separation feels like. It's a knife, jagged, ill-formed, and cruel. It slashes as the heart, re-opening fresh wounds continuously. It's a dull ache in the back of throat. It's a reality that grows more painful with time, even as it becomes more manageable.

It's falling asleep alone, waking up alone, tending a baby alone, crying alone--alone but not really alone. Just separated.

It's one half of a heart, a unit, a life on one side of the world and the second half on the other side of the world.

It's seeing things the other would love and aching to share in those. It's remembering when we took one another for granted and mourning that. It's growing a relationship stronger every day, forging a bond through pain, denial, love, and trust.

It's dying to self and putting the one you love before your own feelings. It's being strong when you crave weakness, smiling when  tears brim, and loving fully and truly when it's hard.

It's the sound of an airplane's engine breaking your heart and the slow pace of a calendar bringing you hope.

It's love, marriage, and family tested and tried to come out stronger than ever.

It's being the one he comes home to, and waiting every day with the knowledge that an embrace long awaited is the sweetest.

It's sending your heart where he goes, while your physical being stays home.

It's a love that's hard, a love that's tried, a love that's true.

So today I'm thankful that my husband is with me, for many women do not have theirs tonight. I'm thankful for the challenges we will face, the growing process, the pain, and the love of our little family. I don't relish what's to come. I loathe the expected pain and fear the loneliness, but I am thankful for the trial just the same.

A letter to Milsos Everywhere

Milso: "Someone who is a significant other to someone who is the military. This phrase is extremely popular on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest."
TA: Tuition Assistance
BAH: Basic allowance for housing
Note: Since I'm married, I'm writing this in the husband/wife context. However, replacing the terms with others, ie, (fiancee, boyfriend) will work just as well.

Dear Milso Sisters,

I'm writing this because we children of the late 20th/early 21st centuries are ever so spoiled and we show it. I'm writing this because I'm tired of being embarrassed by my so called peers. But mostly, I'm so proud of those of you who are being amazing each and every day. I want to encourage you.

First, I want to admit that we all have our bad days years. There are periods in every person's life when he/she is selfish and acts like an idiot. Sometimes, no matter how much we love our S/Os, we do stupid, selfish things. I include myself ever so heartily in this confession.

Now on to the crux....

There's a difference between whining and needing encouragement. A difference between extended self pity and having a bad day. A difference between playing the martyr and being long-suffering.

Moving 

When we insist that we cannot deal with being moved away from our families, our current homes, or jobs because the military decided to send our husbands elsewhere, we are being ridiculous. Yes, it can be painful, exhausting, traumatic, and not fun whatsoever. But we shouldn't act surprised. That's something that's a given in military life (and lot of adult life in general). Moving is not something we get to be martyrs about. Not at all. No, you won't get to always live by your parents or your family. But did you really expect to?
You SHOULD miss your family, long for that community, and save for visits. That's healthy, wonderful, and a total blessing. Enjoy the adventure of stepping out of your home area into a different place. You get to explore the United States and even the  world. Enjoy it.

Money

While the majority of milsos understand that moving comes with military service, there's a complaint that's far too common in milso land: money. Money is annoying. It's stressful. It's too easy to spend and hard to get back. However, don't claim to be POOR just because your husband works for the government. Yes, I said it. Enough with the poor rants. In fact, don't even dream of it unless you have children. Children are expensive. They require a host of different things, can keep mamas from going to work, and they can increase a family's expenditures by a lot. Some of you live in extremely expensive areas, so money is stretched tighter and money complaints from you are legitmate.   So milsos with kiddos and/or those living in high priced areas, you have an exemption, a default clause. However, don't over use it because....

In non-military land, a person's employer doesn't pay for a person's housing. I know, I know, it's shocking. There's no BAH floating around in non-military land. As for insurance, that is freaking expensive. Some jobs offer it, some jobs provide it for a pricey fee for dependents, but it's not a given. As for you young milsos (like myself), do you know what most twenty one year olds make it the private sector? Not much.
 And don't forget, the military will pay for your loved one's college through TA and the GI bill. College is insanely expensive now days, but your husband has a job that, if used correctly, could completely pay for his college.
To recap, you have a house that's paid for, insurance without hefty premiums, and a bundle of tuition money. Please remember those your age floating out in the private sector without all those things and lower paying jobs.

When your husband is gone...

If your husband is deployed, I will hold your hand [figuratively and literally], feed you ice cream if needed, listen to your pain, tell you look adorable because he can't see you, and constantly pray for you. You, dear sister, are being so brave. If he's gone, on a non-deployment issue, I'll do the same things. Separation is painful. So painful. It is difficult. It is emotionally trying. It is exhausting.
I've no tough love for this instance. Only the reminder to be thankful. Thankful that we live in a world where husbands don't leave for the duration--with only a few letters in their absence. Thankful that we live in a world where there might be a skype conversation or two. Thankful that we live in a world with dozens of mediums that we can use to connect with others going through the same pain. Remember: you are not alone. You are not the only one. You can call people at 1 AM because you hate being alone in a
house in the middle of the night. (Call me!!)  Remember the women that came before you.

When the conflict is irrational

Your husband doesn't get to decide where he'll be sent or if he'll enter a war that many people don't support. His job is to be a good servicemember and do what he is told. You don't have to support the war, or the idea of war. You just have to support your husband. He is doing his duty, so support him.

Discounts

You are not entitled to a discount at every single establishment. If a restaurant offers a military discount and only for the servicemember, say thank you and be happy that your S/O is being honored that way. Do not say that certain places should offer high discounts because they're so expensive. And never, ever, ever act offended if someone says they don't have a military discount. (Unless they are rude. In that case, do your thing.)

Blame
Don't blame the military for every problem in your life. Your husband's job may make certain things much harder, but ultimately, it's up to the two of you to work on your relationship. Does your husband's position keep him working holidays? Mine does! But don't blame the military and act the martyr for it. Lots of jobs make their employees work through the holidays. Instead, encourage your S/O and thank him for working holidays. Plan holidays around his days off. Be his biggest fan and cheerleader.

And finally, remember that your husband is more than his job. Your relationship is more than his job. Your life is more than that. Be thankful that he has a career, that you have a home and insurance, and that you're making it through another day of this crazy life.

P.S. 
If you want to date or marry a guy just because he wears a uniform, you're what's known as a tag chaser. You're not a milso, just a girl who goes after guys because of what they wear to work.

When to Make New Friends

Even English majors read more than just Flannery O'Connor or Shakespeare. A few months ago, I discovered "MWF Seeking BFF--My Yearlong Search for  Best Friend"  and due to the wonders of Amazon, kindle, and my iPhone, I had it in my possession within 30 seconds. I read it in one sitting, devouring both content and the  hope it carried.

As a newlywed, military wife, and extrovert, I should be on the constant prowl for new friends. And in some ways I am. [I'm pretty sure I told my manger that I wanted to work so that I could be around people...] But every time I'm asked if I've made friends, I mumble something about friends on Instagram, facebook, or blogs I follow.

I have lots of new friends on these mediums. My iPhone is constantly updating me on the lives of women that I've never met, and I have a vested interest in their lives. I cheer when they lose weight, cry when they kiss their significant others goodbye, feel a twinge of jealousy when they have a good hair day--the basics of friendship. I follow a few blogs intensely, and I often forget that I don't technically "know" the characters that star in my favorite blogs. Last week I had two friends tell me privately that they were expecting--(I've actually met these, but haven't seen them in years.) And I chat multiple times a week with a girl whom I've never met, but who has become a very dear friend.

My feelings about my phone 

I'm not a hermit--I work around 40 hours a week, and I chat and laugh with my amazing co-workers every shift. I have birthday presents to buy for a new [real life] friend's darling daughter, and I'm fond of discussing the latest twist in Game of Thrones with anyone who will listen. I even know the drink order of a regular night shift worker at Wal Mart!

I have the resources to make real life friends from my hubby's base, but becoming friends with someone because our husbands work at the same base is extremely difficult if there isn't more there... Especially since base is 35 minutes away. There's no "Army Wives" clique of women (and a witty, introspective dude), just women who also "happen" to be here.
 And so, I'm contended in my lazy state of friend-making. I'm slowly (very slowly) adding real life friends, while adding cyber friends at a much more rapid pace. I know that I need to practice my "real friend making" skills because I won't always be less than two hours from my family, won't always be consumed with work and school, won't always be content to just hang with my hubby if I want to go out. But for now, I read books like Bertsche's and admire her friend seeking and making skills, all while checking Instagram.

But since my method lacks so much, I must beg the question: how does everyone else do it? How do you balance hectic job, school, and life schedules with actually meeting and creating friends? Am I wrong to be so delightfully contented with my long distance and cyber relationships, as well as my husband, that I don't feel the need to actively seek out more real life friends?

Share your thoughts! I'd love to hear them! 

Deployment, Military Appreciation Month, and Not Coming Home

A few days ago two airman from 'our' base were killed when their plane crashed in Afghanistan. They were young, brave, and doing the job their country  had called them to do. At their home base, protesters blocked the gates, yelling, waving signs, complaining about something those young men had no control over. While those protesters used their liberties to let airmen know that they were unhappy with them--when really they should be unhappy with the government, not actual military members--those men lived their final hours, serving their country.

Today, my husband was told "You're going to Afghanistan". There was no warning, no precedent, nothing to make him think he'd hear those words today. An hour later, he was told that he wasn't. Thanks to a clerical error, two men had been chosen for the job. One would go; one would stay. So this time, my husband stays. However, there's a possibility of a next time, of a next time when his name is the only one and it's his time to go, to serve, to fight for me, for you, for those protesters, and for the rest of the U.S..  And while I'll pray fervently every day and night that my husband comes home to me, there's always that lurking fear. Tonight, when my husband comes home, I'm going to hug  him tighter, and whisper a prayer of thanks that he is home.

May is military appreciation month, so lets appreciate our military. There are men and women all over the world and the U.S. who do difficult, exhausting, tedious, and dangerous jobs to keep us safe every day. And some days, they don't come home from work--wherever that may be. We can disagree with a government's policies, disagree with how defense is carried out, but we must admit that are being kept safe. Disagree with the policy, but always thank an airman, soldier, marine, coastie, or member of the navy. Only one percent of our nation is in the military, keeping us safe, defending us, and sometimes, sacrificing all.

Thank a military member or veteran this month.