Crystal Clear: I'm moving on

For the first time in six years, where I live -- and how we pay for it -- won't be taken care of by the Army. And when I make a phone call about health insurance, child care or, anything really, the person on the other line won't care about my sponsor's Social Security number. Because come this fall, I will no longer be a dependent; I'll just be a civilian.


And so will my husband.

While he will be going into the Reserves, I would be lying if I said that leaving the "traditional" Army family doesn't give me pause. There's just something about the security the military brings. For one; I've never had my own health insurance. And two, the relationships I've made since my husband started his career are invaluable. I can probably count on one hand my close friends who have no military affiliation whatsoever.



It's hard to imagine not heading to the Commissary or the Exchange to do my shopping. And what will my social calendar look like without the regular "Hail and farewell" dinners, Family Readiness Group meetings and military balls? And of course, many of my friends will go on to new duty stations in different cities, states, or even countries, while we forge ahead in this new civilian life.

While I am not saying goodbye completely -- as an Army civilian, I know I am still part of the Army family and the Fort Jackson community -- it still won't be the same.

When I married into the Army in February 2005, I didn't know what I was getting into. I took my first flight just months before on a small prop-plane that flew me into Fort Sill, Okla., where my husband was attending his officer basic course.

And while most people think our wedding date was chosen to center around Valentine's Day, the truth is a lot less romantic -- we chose a date that gave him two weeks to help plan the wedding and two weeks to pack for his new duty station in Germany where I joined him three months later.

Truth be told, I wasn't too keen on the military lifestyle at first. I found out a year or so later that just days into landing in Germany, I'd somehow already offended a bunch of people I'd never met, most likely based on someone not understanding my unusual sense of humor. That was the first of many misunderstandings I had, most of which I can now look back on and laugh.

Despite those missteps, I enjoyed being an Army spouse. I dove in headfirst, being assigned the task of FRG co-leader before I even really knew what the FRG was. I joined the spouses' club, and was even on the board before we headed back to the states. I made a number of friends, many with whom I am still in contact today. Friends that, during our husbands' deployments, knew when to get me out of the house and when I just needed to be left alone. For every Soldier who knew me as "Lt. Brown's wife," there was a spouse who knew him as "Crystal Brown's husband."

When we left that first duty station three years ago, in addition to German wine, I brought home some lifelong friendships and some lessons learned. But, unlike the wine, those lessons will stick with me. And, hopefully, so will the friendships.

So in a month or so, when my Soldier officially becomes Mr. Brown, I will be losing a big part of something that has been a major part of my adult life. And frankly, it's scary. But I know that having been a part of this family is something I will never forget, and something that has made me and my family stronger.

Crystal Clear: Dental visit sets mom's teeth on edge

Unlike my husband, when it comes to dental health, I tend to be somewhat lax. My dentists almost always make a remark about whether I floss regularly, though what they observe during exams makes it obvious that I don't. And because I'm almost always between dentists, I don't always keep to the recommended six-month cleaning plans.

Because of my own habits, I wanted to make sure my husband and I started our son on the right path. I followed all the suggestions: no sleeping with a bottle, not too many sweets and brush his gums, and later, his teeth. I was ecstatic when I found out the daycare kept toothbrushes and toothpaste in the room so that the children could brush there, too.

So when I noticed that one of his front teeth appeared to be darker than the other, I was disheartened. Googling the symptom didn't do me any good: By day's end, I was convinced that his tooth was dead and if it didn't fall out soon, it would have to be pulled. I frantically called my son's godmother, a dentist, and filled her in. Her calm voice did little to reassure me. It's probably fine, she said. And if not, the worst that could happen is that the tooth would be pulled.

And since it was a baby tooth, he should have no problems with his permanent tooth coming in about five years from now. That's when vanity got the best of me; would he have to go through the next five years with one tooth missing? I imagined the story shared in whispers around the school. "Oh, he hasn't had a front tooth since he was 1. His mother allowed the poor boy to hurt his tooth."

The situation was made worse by the fact that my son did not yet have a dentist. He had not, in fact, ever been to a dentist. For once, the oversight wasn't a product of my procrastination; I could have sworn my dentist said that he didn't have to be seen until 2. Not so, said my dentist-friend. He should have been seen once the first tooth bud popped out. Bad Mom.

So I did what any mother who has fallen from grace and is seeking to redeem herself would do: I immediately set up an appointment with the dentist, making sure to measure my words so as not to draw attention the fact that at almost 2, the boy had never set foot in a dentist's office. To the receptionist's credit, even if she thought I was the worst parent in the world, she didn't let on.

She didn't even let on when she called our house and left a message saying that despite what I'd told her when I made the appointment, our son did not actually have dental insurance. Sigh.

For some reason, I assumed that since we had signed him up for medical insurance, the dental was done automatically. As my husband would say, "When you assume, half the time you're right and the other half you're wrong." In my case, I was wrong. And as if to prove that Murphy's Law does exist, ("Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong") it turns out that my phone call to sign up for the insurance came two days too late. We'd missed that month's deadline, which meant that my son had to go another month (with a possibly dying tooth!) before he could see the dentist.

But this story does have a happy ending. On the first workday of the new year, my son had his first dental appointment. He was the best patient of the day, the staff said, and his teeth were perfectly fine.

So while other folks make a myriad of New Year's Resolutions, I think I will make just one: Stop freaking out. And I'm pretty certain I can keep it.

Until it's time to floss his teeth, that is.

Potty-mouthed boy ready for next step?

The other day, my son took a diaper from our portable caddy and handed it to me. He then grabbed the box of wipes, a changing pad and laid down on the floor. And just this week, as I picked him up from the day care, he said, "potty," and raised his shirt, indicating that he needed to be changed.

If the kid can do all that, I thought to myself, he is ready to be potty trained. But the question is: Are the rest of us ready?

My mother has been encouraging us to potty-train my son since before his first birthday. And my excuse was always that he couldn't be fully trained until he moved into a day care room with bathroom facilities. But when that happened a few months ago, he still didn't seem ready. My next excuse was the pediatrician's assertion that 18 months would be a good time to start. And now that 18 months have come and gone, I'm still unconvinced that it is time.

I understand that there are clear advantages to taking him from Pampers to Pull-ups: Every time I look over my receipts, I'm always in awe at the sheer amount of money we spend on diapers each month. And one can only change a wriggling toddler on the bathroom floor or picnic bench so many times before it grows old.
Each weekend, I pore through my books and search the Internet looking for a solid answer on the appropriate age at which a child should be fully potty trained. And every week, I am shocked to find that there is no one answer. A Google search for "potty-training tips" yields nearly 2.5 million results. Is it any wonder I'm so confused?

I even took a quiz that was supposed to gauge a child's readiness to be potty trained. My results? "Remember that there are no hard and fast rules about when a child is ready that will work for every child."
Sigh.

Some of the signs are there: He says potty, pulls up his shirt and is always ready to hop up on his new potty seat. But as my husband and I encourage him, the water running in the sink - I've been told it helps; it doesn't
- he seems content to simply sit there for several moments before snatching off a bit of toilet paper from the roll and holding it out for us to dispose.

My experience with him reminds me of a story that has made the Internet rounds in several different adaptations.

While out to sea, a large boat became shipwrecked and there was only a single survivor. This man prayed and asked God to save his life. Soon thereafter, another boat came by and offered the man some help.

"No thanks," he said. "I'm waiting for God to save me."

The men on the boat shrugged their shoulders and continued. As the man became more deeply concerned, another boat came by. Again, the people aboard offered this man some help, and again he politely decline. "I'm waiting for God to save me," he said again.

After some time, the man began to lose his faith, and soon after that he died. Upon reaching Heaven, he had a chance to speak with God briefly.

"Why did you let me die? Why didn't you answer my prayers?"
"Dummy, I sent you two boats!"


Through all of my research, I am waiting for an answer - a sign - that meant my son was ready for this next step. And like the drowned sailor, I've already received my answer. Now it is just a matter of whether I will be brave enough to accept it.

Big boys don't cry? Not quite

FORT JACKSON, SC -- I always heard moms talk about how difficult it was to leave their children in the care of another person for the first time. And each time I would hear such a story, I found it hard to believe.

At six weeks, I'd already enrolled him into the on-post CDC for the first time. At seven months, my husband and I left him with my mom for a long weekend as we went on a cruise. And we have been fortunate enough to have friends who don't mind inviting him over for a sleepover to give us time to ourselves. Don't get me wrong, we weren't necessarily jumping for joy when we left him with others. The sound of another baby would have our heads turning involuntarily. And in certain situations, we would find ourselves wondering how our child would react.

But I never really experienced that heart-wrenching feeling of separation that I have heard other moms describe; until this week, that is.

A couple of weeks ago, our son moved into what I've playfully dubbed the big kid's class. Whereas his previous room included newborn babies to brand new walkers, the toddler room may range in age from 15 months to nearly 3 years. Before his one-week transition began, my husband and I met with the room leader. She showed us around the room, my eyes widening at what she said the children would learn. After lunch, the children brushed their teeth. This room even had toddler-sized sinks and toilets.

Having always been drawn to older children - no doubt enchanted by their ability to do things he was not yet big enough for - he took to his new room immediately. He seemed to pass his former infant class with trepidation; peeking in ever so slightly but shrinking away from his former caregivers lest they whisk him away from his new class.

I learned quickly that the toddler room was a far cry from the infant room; a romper I put in his backpack as an extra outfit sat untouched for days. Big kids, apparently, didn't wear rompers. They also didn't carry diaper bags. But despite all of the differences, my anxiety quickly faded. At drop-off time, I was soon forgotten as my son rushed to open the safety gate to begin his day.

Until two days ago.

He was already fussy when I woke him that morning, seemingly bothered by the arrival of two top molars. He settled enough to eat a small snack before we headed toward post, but midway through our walk to his class, he was sniffling. Once we got into the classroom, he was openly crying. And as I spoke with the caregivers, I saw him run past us with a book, bawling his eyes out. By the time I left the room, I didn't see him, but I could still hear his wails. As I passed the room's window, I spotted him in a corner where he paused from his cries just enough to take in the fact that I had left him and build up enough momentum to cry even harder.

At that moment, as I weighed the pros and cons of going back into the room, a pain pierced through my heart. In my mind, I ran back in and hugged him tightly, telling him it would be OK. But I knew that rushing in, and leaving again, would do more harm than good. Besides, I knew the ladies (and man) would be able to handle it without getting emotionally involved. I was in awe at how the caregivers wrangled a dozen or so toddlers through the center, on the playground and through mealtimes. I still wonder how they possibly brush each of the children's teeth when I can hardly get just one to sit still as his teeth are brushed.

As I left the center, still hearing his cries in my head, I knew that was one in a long line of heart-wrenching decisions I would have to make. Because as much as we may try to delay it, my son is no longer my baby; now, he's a big boy.

The "eyes" have it

It’s 8 p.m. Dinner has long been finished, milk has been drunk, play outfits have been replaced by pajamas. My son is lying on the floor, trying his hardest to watch the Backyardigans while my husband lies across his legs to keep them from moving.

One hand is on my son’s forehead, the other holding his chin. All the while, I hover above them both, waiting for the perfect moment; the moment our son tries to catch a glimpse of the cartoon; the moment in which I can squirt a thin strip of eye ointment into his infected eyes.

If it seems like torture, that’s exactly what it sounds like at our house four times a day for five days. Parents call it pink eye. Doctors call it conjunctivitis. I call it “the infection with the absolute worst treatment ever.”

I should have known the ointment would be a problem when both the physician’s assistant and the nurse cautioned me when they explained the prescription they were giving me.

“You will probably need someone to help you,” each of them had said, eyeing me with what I now know must have been pity.

The first time wasn’t so bad. But that’s because he didn’t understand what we were doing. The next time, he was ready; arms flailing, head turning, and all the while, his eyes were snapped shut.

Seven treatments into it and it seemed using the ridiculous eye ointment was getting more difficult, instead of easier.

So I did what I usually do when I’m having trouble with something: I googled it.

This is what I found:

1. Place the fingers of your non-dominant hand along your child’s forehead.

2. Place the thumb of that hand gently on the child’s cheek just below the lower eyelid.

3. Gently pull down on the cheek skin with your thumb.

4. This will cause the lower lid to curl outward — you should see the thin pink “shelf” of the lining of the lower lid.

5. Using your other hand, gently apply the ointment along that thin pink “shelf.” Start at the inner corner of the eye and smoothly move across to the outer corner.

Sounds easy, right? Wrong.

Where in the directions does it address the crying that starts — and continues — as soon as we initiate step 1? What about the wails of torture the child emits as the eye ointment hits the eyelashes time and time again (which means that the medicine has not gotten into the eye, which means you must repeat each step)? And where does it mention that the child will eventually start to wail as soon as he or she sees the ointment tube?

I even checked my precious book — the one I consult for everything from runny noses to speech progress. Nothing.

We tried it with my husband holding him as I aimed the ointment from above. We tried sitting in the floor, me holding him and my husband wielding the tube. We tried it with him in a chair, we tried it with him lying there. It became as repetitive as a Dr. Seuss book. As I smeared the cream on his bottom eyelid with a Q-tip (“This totally counts,” I asserted to my husband) all I could do was laugh. Who, pray tell, came up with the idea of squirting a strip of ointment into the inner eyelid of a wriggly infant? Probably the same person who decided that giving a dog nightly mouth rinses was an “easy” way to keep his teeth clean. It’s as though someone was sitting in a room thinking, “Hmmm, what’s the most physically and mentally trying task that we can give a parent just getting used to parenthood? I know! Eye ointment.”

With the eye ointment glistening on his bottom lid, our now-exhausted son fell asleep in my husband’s arms. The day’s treatments were finished.

Only 12 more to go.

Lost ...

The hit television show, “Lost,” is about a group of plane crash survivors who find themselves stranded on a mysterious tropical island. Each episode, the characters become more and more confused as they encounter polar bears, a monster made entirely of black smoke and unknown assailants.

For many of us, our first experience in the Army life may feel a bit like that. It’s easy to feel lost as we try to become acclimated to the new world we have entered.

But unlike those plane crash survivors, we don’t have people lurking around every corner, threatening us with harm. Instead, there are those who work countless hours to provide us with everything we need to become acclimated to the Army life. So for those who are new to the military life, I offer the following tips:

1) Take a visit to the Army Community Services center. When I arrived at my husband’s first duty station, he was instructed to take me first to ACS. Although I had no clue at the time what ACS was, it made a huge difference. I got the chance to see what types of services were offered, get a calendar of on-post events and I even left with a couple of job leads.

2) Take advantage of the free classes and events. Fort Jackson offers a wide array of classes every week. The best part is, they’re all free. Whether you want to learn how to “speak Army,” get a handle on your finances or learn how to deal with your active toddler, there is a class for you. ACS even holds events for newcomers that provide information on various on-post agencies and what they have to offer.

3) Contact the hospital. Even for those who never get sick, it is a good idea to be familiar with the on-post hospital. While Moncrief Army Community Hospital doesn’t have an emergency room, there are several other clinics, including an urgent care clinic, that offer family members and Soldiers an opportunity to be seen.

It is also a good idea to stop by the TRICARE office to make sure that you and all of your family members are enrolled. A couple of weeks ago, I missed out on an appointment for my son because I never bothered to fill out the proper paperwork. Taking a few minutes in advance to make sure all of your paperwork is in order can mean avoiding a hassle later.

4) Get in touch with your unit’s Family Readiness Group. At an FRG meeting the other day, one of the women shared how she had an emergency soon after she and her husband reached their new duty station. With her husband already away on assignment, she was left to take care of things alone. The FRG offers support for spouses, whether in an emergency or not. Don’t wait until a deployment to seek guidance from the FRG, start now. If your unit doesn’t have an FRG, or if you’re unsure, speak to the company commander about possibly starting one.

5) Get out of your comfort zone. It’s easy to want to keep to yourself upon arriving in a new place. But it is healthy for you — and your family members — to experience all that the post has to offer. Check out the community calendar at http://jackson.mhsoftware.com/. Or take advantage of the hourly care options on post and take some “me” time to go shopping, work out or just take a nap while the children are under the care of trained professionals.

Is this an exhaustive list of hints to get you ready for a new life in the military? Of course not. But I can assure you that there are many men and women, much wiser than me, who have the best advice possible.

And many of them are right in your unit.

Editor’s note: Crystal Lewis Brown is an Army spouse of five years and editor of the Fort Jackson Leader.

Balancing Act

Ooops! I totally forgot to post this two weeks ago, so there will be back-to-back Crystal Clears. If you're not at Fort Jackson, I may not be able to help you with specific about your post, but I can certainly point you in the right direction!

Last Wednesday, on our production day (i.e., the day we send the newspaper to the publisher for printing) I was stressed out. We were running a bit behind and were scrambling to make our mid-afternoon deadline. As stressed as I already was, I doubted it could get any more hectic.

And then I got a phone call from the day care. The baby had a rash and it looked bad, they said. I texted my husband to pick him up but that was a no go — he would not be free until several hours later. And I couldn’t reach the friends I thought might be able to babysit for a few hours.

Within a matter of moments, my day had gone from normal-stress (the type of stress in which I normally thrive) to super-stress (the type of stress that makes me wish I’d stayed in bed).

Although everything worked out in the end, I couldn’t stop the anxiety I was feeling, even throughout the next day. Could I really do this working mom thing? Did my coworkers think me less professional? If I’d paid more attention, could I have prevented the rash (which turned out to be a bad diaper rash)?

All of us experience stress from time-to-time. As military spouses, I (with much bias) say that I think we may have it worse than some others. In addition to the normal stress that comes from being a mom, working, volunteering and trying to get dinner on the table every night, we also have a few added stressors.

What if my Soldier deploys? Will my drill sergeant/ supply sergeant/company commander husband get home from work in time for the baby’s first birthday party?  How will I ever be able to find another job if we PCS? We can’t sell our house, but BAH will only pay for one dwelling — how will we make ends meet? If I go talk to the chaplain, will it affect my husband’s career? What will people think if they find out?

One great thing about the military, however, is that we do not have to go it alone. 

The Army’s not just an institution, we are a family; here on post, we are Team Jackson. 

And there is someone on post who can answer each and every one of your questions.

Family days bring more than traffic

My first week at Fort Jackson, I received some advice: Limit on-post driving on Thursdays and Fridays — Family Day and graduation.

At the time, I didn’t know what Family Day was. But, for me, it soon became nothing more than a traffic hassle. Everywhere I went, from the PX to the Shoppette, it was packed. Quick errands took longer than usual. And forget about grabbing a burger or taco on Family Day; I’d either bring my lunch or eat off-post. But several weeks ago, a last-minute errand took me away from my ordinary routine, and into the PX, on a Thursday.  

I’m almost always in a rush, but that day, I took my time looking for shoes for my son.

As I walked through the PX, I saw the usual throngs of family members, but this time, I saw something more.

I saw Soldiers, after nine weeks of wearing combat boots, trying on high heels. I saw dads being reunited with children — children who were at that age at which two weeks could mean the difference between having a crawling baby and a toddler. I could imagine that these children were much different than when dad left for Fort Jackson more than two months ago. I saw brothers shopping with sisters, moms hugging sons. And for the first time, I saw beyond my own selfishness.

Many of these brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, wives and girlfriends were experiencing military life for the first time. They had never before seen a military installation, let alone been to one. For those of us who live here, the pause of traffic as a battalion of Soldiers marches across the road is commonplace.

But for these visitors, who I see snapping photos of said Soldiers with their cameras and cell phones, it is something new and amazing. They are seeing through fresh eyes what we have come to know from our own Soldiers — the discipline, the strength and the courage.

I often peruse the Public Affairs Facebook page and am astounded at how many family members and significant others of our Soldiers in training reach out to each other. They thirst for information about their loved ones. They passionately follow, as much as they can, each week of their loved one’s training. And they also become friends with each other, even if only online. So, as I looked around at these family members interact their Soldiers, I thought about the numerous posts I read each day. The posts in which a mother’s baby boy is leaving the nest for the first time. The newlywed who will be reunited with his or her spouse at graduation.

These loved ones have poured their hearts out on our page as they fretted over receiving letters, mailing care packages and missing phone calls.

I won’t say that I will never again complain about traffic on Thursday and Friday, but I will be more patient. Because now I know something about these family members that I didn’t before: To me, Family Day was an inconvenience; to them, it was everything.

First published in the Fort Jackson Leader at www.jackson.army.mil. Link to the original is here.

Crystal Clear: Mom, son have hair-raising experience

Since I stopped straightening my hair three years ago, I have been known by my hair. Those who don't know me through my husband or son know me as "the lady with the big hair" or "the lady with the afro." And, until a few weeks ago, my son was following in my footsteps.

His hair was a mixture of several textures, with a thick Mohawk-like patch of curly hair on top. He was born with a lot of hair, and over the past year, it had only gotten longer; well, more accurately, bigger. Much like my hair, it refused to be tamed. It was as if his hair had its own identity, and I liked it that way. His hair made pick-up time at the day care easy, too. If his usual providers were gone for the day, he was easy to identify.

"He's the kid with the crazy hair," I'd say.

But that was then.

One week after his first birthday, he had his first trip to the barbershop. He sat on Dad's lap - my little one looked tiny in the huge chair - and the barber covered his clothes with a cape. The first part of the haircut was easy - the barber shaped the baby's "Mohawk" with scissors. That is where I thought the haircut would end; unfortunately, I was wrong.

Next, came the clippers. For about half an hour, the barber clipped, shaped and cut my baby's hair. To my son's credit, he sat in dad's lap quietly the entire time. But at the end of the haircut, I couldn't help but notice the mounds of hair on the floor. And as the barber swept the hair away, it signaled to me the end of my son's baby-dom.

When I posted photos of the haircut online that night, a friend of mine remarked that she doesn't understand why moms are so reticent to have their sons' hair cut. For me, the reason was two-fold. The big, often wild, hair was one of those things that tied him to me. When I walked into a room with him, it was clear that we were mother and son. But now that his hair is cut more like Dad's, we'd lost that bond.

His hair was also a symbol of his growing up. I know he has to grow up, and I look forward to when he is talking, playing sports and going to school. But as the hair was swept away, I felt like a part of his identity and a part of his childhood innocence was being swept away, as well.

I know that although that part of our bond may now be gone, we still share something that only mothers can share with their sons. And now hair is something that bonds him and my husband - my husband now brushes our son's hair in the same methodical way in which he brushes his own.

I must admit, the haircut has grown on me, and now that it's already just a bit longer, I like it even more.

When some people go to a barber, they come out only a few dollars and a several strands of hair lighter.

But my son's change was more than that; he went in a baby and left a big boy.