The Mocha Manual to Military Life mini-review (Virtual Book Tour)

The Mocha Manaul to Military Life, cowritten by Pamela M. McBride, seasoned military life/writer/career coach, is kind of like giving your  newly married/dating military girlfriend a bunch of advice and stories all wrapped up into 11 chapters and 300-something pages. And although it's called the "Mocha Manual," rest assured that it's for girlfriends of all hues.

Though there are loads of good stuff in there, I've decided to focus on two chapters that are near and dear to me.

Chapter 2 -- Surviving the first year: Your induction into the MS world and Chapter 3 -- When honey is away dealing with separation and deployment.

Chapter 2 -- Surviving the first year: Your induction into the MS world
My first year of military wifehood wasn't necessarily a disaster, but I definitely had a few speed bumps. #1: Not really understanding my husband's job and having the battalion commander's wife explain it to me during her welcome reception (though at the time, I didn't really understand what a battalion was exactly, so I didn't really know what a battalion commander was either). And #2: Being my usual goofy self, I jokingly said something that got taken out of context and which garnered me the side eye from other spouses until they all eventually PCSd. Add that stress on top of the already super-stressful first year of marriage and, well, it can be a bit of a problem. Especially if you find yourself across the country, or even in another country, than your family, friends, job, et.

Chapter 2 can't fix everything (the chapters on protocol and relationships would have also been useful in all my faux pas), it's a start in the right direction. Pamela and Kimberly Seals-Allers get spouses pointed in the right direction from the get go, discussing how to get an ID card, make sure you're properly enrolled in DEERS (if you don't know what that is, you need the book) and getting set up in military housing. I actually found it hilarious to read the part about standing up for the national anthem before a movie in an on-post theater in one of the many extras found in the book. It was funny because I remember looking in confusion as everyone stood up before a movie at the Fort Sill theater.

She also touches on something I think we can all relate to; finding hair products no matter where you're stationed! I got many a package from an online retailer I'd never before heard of to do my hair, buy ball dresses, get contact lenses, etc. etc.

Chapter 3 -- When honey is away: Dealing with Separation and Deployment.
This chapter is near and dear to me right now because my own honey will be going TDY for a couple of months soon, and friends and others are saying goodbye to their honeys who are deploying. Although separations, whether it be a trip to the field, temporary duty (TDY), overseas deployment, are a part of military life, that doesn't make it any better. You just have to find your own coping mechanisms to deal with it. That's what chapter 3 is all about. I remember at one point during my husband's deployment (when I was not working), I checked out to back-to-back seasons of the Pretender and stayed up late watching the episodes. Fyi, I also repeated this with episodes of Prison Break. Obviously, staying up watching TV and sleeping wasn't the best way to cope with  deployment? But what is? That, my dears, is a question left up to each person, but this chapter gives lots of helpful pointers to get you started. The predeployment checklist has some of the same info you might get from the unit FRG, plus a few more. I especially like the "Military Spouse Survival Kit." This list is invaluable; not because women aren't in the know about household tools, but it provides a list to help make sure you have everything. My only problem with it is that I think the most important tool should have been at the top of the list instead of the middle; a good corkscrew :)

A couple of other notes about the book: There are a few little vignettes in each chapter that I really like. One is "The Mocha Mix" in which you can read stories from actual spouses and/or female service members about whatever topic fits the chapter. This gives a few different perspectives. Also included are "His turn," in which you hear from the husband/boyfriend service member; "Senior spouse spotlight," a brief story on a spouse; and a "Service member spotlight," about a female service member. The end of the book contains a handy glossary for those easy-to-forget, yet often used military acronyms and terms that contains everything from "RSVP" to "RFO."

All in all, if you are, or if you know someone, who is new to the military lifestyle, this is a great book to send as a "Welcome to the military" gift.

The brief adventures of New Dog and the Browns

New Dog came into our lives -- and left it nearly as quickly -- in the most unusual of ways.

DS was holding our dog, Taz, on a leash, while my arms were completely full of everything I'd neglected to previously pack for our weekend trip to Atlanta.

"Hop in," I said to Taz, and when a blur flew beside me, I was surprised to see a brown Pomeranian instead of our usually grumpy and gray-haired Min Pin. New Dog jumped all over the car; from the front to the back, into the back window, and briefly landing in the car seat, which prompted DS to cry out: "That's MY seat."

For 5 minutes, I looked from Taz, now walking around aimlessly as DS and I looked at New Dog do sprints inside the Hyundai, and pleaded with New Dog to calm down. Finally, she did.

I tucked under my arm and held her out to a neighbor who turned out to simply be saying hi. "Is this your dog," I asked? Nope. And as I walked down the street, knocking on doors; and later, drove slowly with my windows down looking for the owner, I was greeted with the same answer.

One neighbor would point to one house, and someone else to another, until finally I'd lost both my patience and an hour and a half. So DS, Taz, New Dog and I set about doing the errands I'd plan to do anyway. First, the Library, during which trip I called my mom for advice (call Animal Control, she said). Then I dropped Taz off at the vet, and had the dog scanned to see if she had a microchip. She didn't. So the receptionist, Vet tech, me, DS and New Dog all shared a brief awkward moment during which I whined, "I don't know what to do I'm supposed to be going out of town and now two hours and passed and I don't know what to doo-oo." So the receptionist handed me a couple of phone numbers to Animal Control and the SCPA and sent us on our way.

I did another quick trip around the neighborhood, neck craning to hear an owner screaming New Dog's name. Nada. So I called Animal Control and they dispatched someone out to pick her up. Not knowing how long the wait would be, I put a collar on her, hooked up the leash and put it around the post in front of my house. She didn't even touch the water or the dog biscuit I put out for her.

Right as I guiltily began to pull out of the driveway, Animal control drives up. We discuss New Dog's condition (clean, white teeth, clipped nails) and he assures me that they will post a pic of her on the website and will wait for the owner to pick her up. What if that doesn't happen, I ask. Then she will go up for  adoption, he answered. A Pomerian, a cute and well-mannered one at that, would go quickly, he assured me.

Of course, I couldn't stop thinking about New Dog the entire trip. I'd call the shelter Tuesday, I decided, and put my name on a list I'd convinced myself existed to claim New Dog as a new member of the Brown family (wasn't sure how Jamil felt about this plan, but I figured once he saw the cuteness, he wouldn't be able to resist)!

Just 15 minutes ago, we pulled into our neighborhood and were greeted by colorful "lost dog" posters, bearing New Dog's photo. I called the number and the woman who answered was so relieved and was crying to hard and so loudly, that I didn't even hear her when she told me New Dog's real name.

She offered me a reward, but I declined. All I wanted, I told her, was for her to get New Dog microchipped so this couldn't happen again. She said she would, and I believed her; she'd had the dog for only two months, and got her from an abusive home.

Whatever her real name is, New Dog signaled the end of a super-hard week for me, and was the beginning of something unusual, and fun. And I'm glad that I could play a part in helping her get back home.

The Mocha Manual to Military Life

Most of my sister-friends have been involved in the military lifestyle for several years by now. But for those who are new to the game, The Mocha Manual to Military Life (co-written by Pamela McBride, one of my sorors of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority Inc., by the way) is geared toward those who are looking for a heads up on what to expect or for those who want a little more insight into the military lifestyle.

April 8, I will be one stop in Pamela's virtual book tour, in which a group of bloggers and others will "host" Pamela in some way. In lieu of a full book review, I've chosen two chapters that I think are near and dear to me: Chapter 2, which deals with the first year of military life; and Chapter 3, which is about separations, something us spouses know lots about :)

Though it's called the "Mocha Manual," it's not strictly for my darker-hued sisters; though there are some special tips that I've found lacking in some other military spouse books.

In the meantime, take a look at Pamela's tour website at http://pamelamcbride.net/blog/virtual-book-tour/ , and hopefully, I will see some of you guys here in about a week!

Warmth of Other Suns

This past weekend, I had a conversation with my 70-something-year-old grandmother that I'd never had before. We talked about racism (it was there, but she didn't experience as much as her older siblings), whether she'd ever considered leaving Mississippi, and why (no, she's never really been interested), and if any of her siblings had left home to move north (yes, a brother moved to Ohio after having some kind of altercation with a white man).

What prompted the discussion? A meeting and a book.

Two Fridays ago, I had a parent's night out scheduled with the on-post day care center but the hubby was unavailable. And instead of canceling or hitting a movie as I'd done the past two times, I came across something I thought would be interesting. A book discussion and signing at the library. Which leads me to the book.

So far Isabel Wilkerson's book, "The Warmth of Other Suns," is in a word: awesome. In another word - awful. It's not that the book isn't great, it is. And meeting Isabel was even better.

First, the meeting.

I imagine that for an aspiring entertainer, meeting your idol would be amazing. And as a black, female journalist, meeting a black, female journalist that, oh, just so happens to have won the Pulitzer Prize in journalism (the first one, at that!) was amazing. For about an hour, Isabel riveted the couple hundred or so of us gathered in the downstairs auditorium at the Richland County Public Library downtown. She shared with us a few key points about her book, which is a narrative nonfiction about the Great Migration. She kept the tone light; which I think, given the heaviness of the subject matter, which included all manner of atrocities committed under a racist law, was necessary. When it was time for her to sign my book, I'm pretty sure I stood, open gaped, looking at her like a pre-teen thrust suddenly into Justin Bieber's gaze.

For an hour or so, she shared with us a few tidbits from the book that took her 15 years and thousands of interviews to write. Though she never uses the word racism in the book (she refers to it simply as a caste system), the horror stories are some that I have never before heard and never could have imagined.  I have had a hard time making it through some chapters, becoming overwhelmed with emotions as I read the torture endured by some blacks who may have simply done themselves the dishonor of being born so. And to hear the tales of the three highlighted in the book made me wonder about my own family, what our stories were. The couple hundred of us in the audience could probably hear a pin drop as Isabel spoke, sprinkling a bit of humor in her talk to likely keep such a heavy hearted topic as light as possible. and when she finished, she received a standing ovation before we all got in line to wait to have our books signed.  Afterward, I was still on a high, and headed to a Starbucks to sip on a latte and read more of the book.

Even so, I admit I was very much disappointed that there weren't more young folks in the crowd, and by young, I mean 30-somethings, specifically black ones. This very important story, the story of the Great Migration, is one that many of us should of heard from our grandparents, but for some reason or another, didn't.

And this book is a chance for us to know it. 

Crystal Clear: Keeping family close, despite distance

Earlier this weekend, I found myself sitting on the floor at 9:30 p.m., surrounded by photo clippings and holding a pair of scissors, wondering whether I had a small photo of my dog to add to a family collage I was making to take to my son's day care room.

And although I knew I was dangerously close to going overboard on the project (I briefly considered Googling the music to the song "You're my Family" - a Nick Jr. staple, so I could accurately draw the notes on the bottom of the collage) making the collage gave me time to reflect on something I have been thinking a lot about: family.

Growing up, I remember spending all summer at my grandmother's house, playing softball with my cousins in a nearby open field, walking down the dusty county road to my aunt's house and exploring the land behind my grandfather's pig pen and cornfield.

Even during the school year, there was a bevy of cousins, aunts and uncles whose houses we often visited. And try as I may, there was no getting away from my two brothers, and later, my sister.

Making the collage, which came on the heels of trip to Mississippi where my son met his first cousins for the first time, reminded me that his experience will likely be nothing like mine. As a military family, we are constantly on the move, often putting us miles away from our hometowns and our families. So making the 10-hour or so trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast, or even the sevenplus- hour trip to visit relatives in North Mississippi, isn't always feasible.

Busy work schedules sometimes make it difficult for us to even visit my husband's family members, many of whom live more than three hours away in Atlanta.

While I think we do a pretty good job of promoting family within our foursome (yes, I'm including the dog), it's hard to teach the type of closeness that comes with hanging out with siblings and other relatives.

That's why I am so grateful for my military "family" that has developed over the years. Even with my family miles away, I know I can call on a girlfriend and drop off my son or have a play date so he can have "siblings" for a few hours.

A couple of weeks ago, we attended a birthday party where my son got to paint alongside friends. I know the craft wouldn't have held his interest for long if it had just been the two of us, but with his temporary "cousins," around, he chose paint after paint, swirling it around on his pottery plate until I finally had to take it away.

So maybe I will take a cue from his day care class and create another collage; one with cousins, grandmas, grandpas, aunts and uncles, so that no matter how far away they may be physically, he will have the opportunity to see family anytime he wants, right there in his room.

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

Snow day!

For the last two days; we've been snowed in. Well, not literally, but post has been "closed" to all but "key and essential" personnel; and despite my visions of grandeur, I am neither. So what have I been doing? Being a stay-at-home mom. I've baked cinnamon raisin bread from scratch; I've sat idly by as Cam sat on the potty (to no avail I might add, though I'm sure I was pretty close before I got a phone call from the publisher, and frankly with the sound of Backyardigans in the background - don't judge me! and the threat of urine getting on the phone I may or may not return, I thought it best to leave the room); I made fried okra, smothered porkchops, marinated chicken with gravy and mashed red potates; and besides nearly going out of my mind, I played in the snow with Cam. And it was fun.

But I did learn one thing: I am NOT cut out to be a stay-at-home mom. And for those of you who are, God bless you.

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.

Making it rain ...

I never thought I'd be happy to be peed on. But two days ago, urine sprinkling my new Victoria's Secret sleepshirt (thanks, Santa!) I was grinning and high-fiving like nobody's business.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don't like doing anything that takes me more than 10 minutes to figure out. So the fact that Cam's supposed potty-training readiness started about two months ago has done little to endear me to this next phase of his life. Two months ago, excited by the boy's interest, we bought the little potty seat that sits atop the regular toilet. And for the next few weeks, he'd sit on the sit for a few minutes, wipe himself with toilet paper, flush the toilet and wash his hands. Then he's promptly "go" in his diaper.

A month after that, I figured that what he really needed was a more exciting potty seat, so I went all out (well, as much as you can go "all out" at the PX) and got him an Elmo potty. Soon he was sitting on the potty making Elmo praise him until he got tired of sitting. Then he would stand and pee on the floor. And a couple of weeks after that, the daycare folks declared him ready and my $30 worth of diapers became worthless as they were promptly replaced with $30 worth of pullups.

I admit that I kinda thought the boy would be a potty-training savant. I'd sit him on the potty with a book (probably something like Lord of the Rings or the Chronicles of Narnia) and he promptly do his business, wipe, clean himself up and declare, "Mum, dad, I'm finished!" (which may or may not happen in Mandarin Chinese). Instead, we're going on almost 3 months of admittedly half-hearted training on my part and the only thing he'd learned is to take off his diaper/pull-up/underwear, often to disastrous consequences.

So last week, I decided Christmas week would the week! I hit the library nearly every day before the holidays, loading up on books. A Potty Training for Dummies and Busy Mom potty training manual for me, and two potty books and a DVD for him. I hit Target and got Yo Gabba Gabba undies, and threw in a pack of those rubber ones, too. The following day, they were all in the wash, along with his sheets. And my exubertant rendition of the "Go, Potty Go" song and my made-up dance, weren't having any effect on the boy. And then he peed on me.

Well, technically, he was on the toilet and seemed to accidentally let go before realizing what was happening and moving abruptly, spraying me in the process. It was what I'd been waiting for. We laughed, we hugged, we cried, we high-fived. It was like winning the potty Superbowl. Since then -- two days later -- I've tried to get things moving again, but so far, to no avail. But at least now, I have a little bit of hope that we're on the right track.

Plus, I know the Potty Dance.

Loser

Years ago, as a college sophomore, I did something I had never done before.

I failed a class.

I’d taken statistics, and between my social life, my sorority and my sleep, I had little time left for another “s.” I recall showing up for class after a weeks long hiatus to find that my classmates were taking a test in a statistics program I apparently missed during one of my off weeks.

Oops.

Though I knew it was coming, getting that grade in the mail made my heart drop. Last week, that same feeling came over me when I realized I’d failed the President’s Challenge, in which I was enrolled as part of Team IMCOM.  In August, I declared my intentions; now, one week away from  finishing my eight weeks of physical activity (30 minutes for at least 5 days a week), according to my computer, I’ve done nothing.

The problems began right away; The Monday I was to start the challenge, I was recovering (badly) from a nasty stomach bug and overdosed on Pepto Bismol, causing a trip to the on-post urgent care later that week.

“I have to run today,” I remember wailing to coworkers, “Or I’ll let the president down.”

I was only half joking.

The first week was a wash for gym-going, but I still got four of those five days complete by doing 30-minutes of housework, which is included as one of several activities from which participants can choose.

The next several weeks were a breeze. Between my 5K training and my gym training sessions with my husband, I easily made the five-day minimum. Those days I didn’t feel like hitting the gym, I corralled the family together for a half-hour walk around the neighborhood. I had one other minor slip-up; between work, family and TV time, I couldn’t slip in that fifth day of activity one week. But still, I was on track to meeting the challenge goals and getting my President’s Challenge award patch.

But although I was hitting the gym three times a week and running the other two, I was getting consistently behind in logging my workouts. I put it off days at a time until, eventually, a week passed, then two. Last night, I finally propped my computer on my lap, clicked open my iCalendar and retraced my last two weeks of workouts. But – apparently – there is a 14 day limit on how long I had to log the workouts.

Oops.

My computer screen showed – right there in black and white – that there was no way I would make my goal. “But I DID make it,” I whined to myself. I saw there was a reset button and  clicked on it, thinking it would skip my two lost weeks and let me start fresh at week 6. Nope. It was gone; all of it. Each of the days I’d worked out, the last  6 weeks of workouts, were wiped clean. It’s as though I hadn’t done a dang thing. For a few moments, I stared at the blank charts, disappointment growing as I clicked tabs trying to regain my lost weeks.

But then I realized that whether I actually “won” anything was irrelevant. I HAD gotten out there and done more physical activity than I have in probably the last four years. I could run longer than 3 miles without stopping. I could do 10 pushups (at least!). And – most importantly – I could fit into those jeans that I hadn’t worn since my mom dropped me (and them) off at the airport in 2005. When I complained about letting the president down, my coworker assured me that the president didn’t want me to work out sick, he wanted me to be healthy.

And I am.

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.

A different world

For last two or three months, I've been trying to figure out what direction I want to take in my life and in my career. What I've come up with so far is slim. With the hubby's help, I decided last weekend that I want to live in a coastal town, have a boat and walk to gourmet grocery stores and wine shops at which I will ask the salespeople to order me whatever new wine/cheese/rare ingredient I have decided I must have in order to make some elaborate dish I discovered on Top Chef.

And with the help of my 10-year-old sister-in-law, I came up with a bare bones plan to write a bestselling novel. Written in crayon on red construction paper and adorned with stickers, the three-step plan is as follows: 1) Come up with great idea (at this point, my sister-in-law conducted a scientific poll that included herself, me, her brother and her mom to decide the book genre); 2) Write the book; 3) Have Oprah endorse book. Underneath the three steps is the ultimate goal: Success! (Written in bubble letters in that way in which one begins writing too big at the beginning causing the last "s" to be squeezed in at the very edge of the paper).

A shaky plan, I know; even for someone like myself who has held approximately 20 different jobs since I was about 15 years old, excluding those jobs that didn't require me to file taxes. What I do know, however, is that I still ultimately want to teach at the college level, which has been my goal since graduating with my B.A. The issue is how  -- and when -- exactly I plan to do that. But I know that getting a doctorate must fall within that plan at some point.

While I enjoy my job, and hope to progress in it, it feels overwhelming when I think about going back to school while juggling a husband, a toddler and a somewhat stressful full-time job. And all the while, I have to keep myself trained up at work to make the paper better and become a better editor.

I hoped that writing this would provide some spark, some idea as to what would be the best point of action to follow. Didn't happen. But that's OK. Whatever path I decide to take, I know that my family is behind me. In the meantime, I'll just try to have a little fun doing what I enjoy best - cooking and writing. And the midst of that, maybe I will figure something out.

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.

Let's go swimming

About a month ago, I'd pretty much convinced myself that if I were a stay-at-home mom, my parenting would be very much different than it is now. Cam would be fluent in Mandarin Chinese, and we'd communicate mainly through baby sign, which I would know because I would study them both with vigor during his nap times. Instead of the thrown together pre-breakfast snacks I usually provide (mostly graham crackers, sometimes apple sauce, and lately oranges that must be sliced before they go bad), he'd have wholesome, organic meals, made fresh by me. Then we'd practice our braille.

Alas, since stay-at-home mommyhood is not an option, I did the next best thing: I went searching for something that would create a mother/son bonding option. And what I found was swimming lessons.

The day before the first lesson was like the night before the first day of school. Though I'd purchased him a swim outfit weeks before, I headed to Target to purchase a reusable diaper, which the swim lesson company claimed was a necessity. I also grabbed another swim shirt, you know, just in case.

After work, I picked Cam up as usual and headed home to let Taz out before heading over to the lesson. I grabbed out suits and towels, threw them into a beach bag and headed to the pool. Which was outside. And had no changing room. I knew something was wrong when I saw a mom wearing a swim dress putting her daughter's suit on in the parking lot. After sending a frantic text message to the mom who recommended the class, I quickly changed Cam in the car and pulled out my own suit. I was dissauded by a dad who hovered near his minivan, which I was parked next to, and dashed inside the school to look for a place to change.

As I ran into the doorway, I was stopped by a newly-natural mama who was hiding her hair underneath a wig. At that point, I was already sweating, had 10 minutes until class and was in no mood for a conversation about how my hair did "that." But, after being a member of Nappturality for a few years, I knew the ire it drew new naturals when they felt brushed off by fellow nappies. I didn't want to be the reason this woman refused to wear her hair out or went back to the perm, so I took a few minutes. Once we finished, I ran through the school, found a bathroom and poured out the contents of my beach bag. No swimsuit. I'd left it in the car.

Groan.

So back to the car I went. There was no more time to go back into the school -- the woman who showed me in told me they were closing -- so changing in the car was back on the table. I won't go into the details, but I will say this: Changing into a miraclesuit in an enclosed space that's about 90 degrees? Not a good idea.

Finally, we make it out of the car (hopefully) unseen. And I realize that Cam has no shoes. Hey, it's not my fault! I had no idea the swimming pool was outside! For some reason, I envinsioned the pool as one of those shown in high school horror movies -- indoors, heated, surrounded by gleaming tile and adjacent to his and her locker rooms.

Once the lesson started, Cam seemed a bit surprised at having the water in his face, but by the end of it, he'd gotten used to it. He kicked his legs, moved his arms and even went under water the first day.

I don't know if he will know how to swim at the end of the month's worth of lessons, but even if he doesn't, I appreciate the experience of watching him watching him brace himself each time he know's he's about to be dunked. And that bonding is priceless.

Even if we never learn to speak Mandarin Chinese.

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.

Why I won't shop at Home Depot

For the past, oh, seven months or so, I've waged a silent war against Home Depot. Not because I don't like their prices -- they don't seem any more expensive than any of the other home improvement stores. And it's not that I don't dislike the location. In fact, I have to pass Home Depot in order to get to Lowe's. It's not even the fact that Lowe's offers a 10 percent military discount (which we rarely use, because the hubbs isn't the "in your face type" that demands the discount, and subsequently, demands to see a manager if the sales clerk denies that the discount exists).

It's because of their ads.

I looove commercials, whether on the radio or on TV. I'm the type of person that would fulfill an advertising guru's wildest dreams. With few exceptions, commercials almost always make me want to buy the product (exception one: Taco Bell's shrimp taco - if they used frozen meat that they thaw in vats of warm water; which I know to be true because I worked there for two days when I was an undergraduate, how can I trust them to properly handle shrimp?!?).

The new Bounty commercial makes me want to tackle my cast iron skillet with a paper towel. The new Audi/Iron Man commercial makes me want an Audi Spyder, despite my aversion to 2-seater sports cars (and lack of Audi money). And nearly any food ad, save for the previously mentioned shrimp taco commercial (ugh!), draws me in, even to the point where I want to go get a Big Mac/Zaxby's basket/milk shake at 11 p.m.

But back to Home Depot. I already have a problem with ads trying to "sound" black. And Home Depot is one of the worst.

"Gurl, what you doin'?" "'Bout to go to da Home Depot Girl!"

The affected speech that is intended to be that of two girlfriends in the midst of a home repair literally disgusts me.

First of all, why should it matter if a person is black or white when it comes to the store at which I want to buy my shrubbery? Why must a woman be addressed as "girlfriend" in order to entice me to come in to buy paint?

Incidentally, I happened to hear back-to-back ads: Home Depot, then Lowe's.

The Home Depot commercial was full of "gurl" and "MMhmmm" -- so much so that I could practically see the necks rolling and fingers snapping as the one woman tries to convince the other woman to purchase items that will help her save on her utility bill. ("Close the door JoJo! You letting all the air out!")

Lowe's was a normal conversation -- no "girl," no "boo," just a discussion about a woman who advised the husband on what products to buy and who identified bugs in the yard. Although I could tell the couple was black (don't get me started on how I can "tell" a black person by his or her voice. It's a long story, and actually something I'd like to get a scientific basis for), there was no need to "prove" the characters were black by adding slang to the conversation.

I'm not offended by the ads, I just find it unnecessary and contrived. And I don't like it.

So, for now, I'm giving Home Depot the boot. Next time I buy my flowers, guurrrl, I'm going to Lowe's.

Mama's Gun

I never considered myself the motherly type. In fact, once I spread the news that I was pregnant, my own family seemed hesitant to respond immediately, lest it be some type of late April Fool's gag.

Even so, I have been pleasantly surprised that I've taken pretty well to the whole mommy thing. That's not to say that I'm the model mom. I let Cam eat a sucker to keep him still during an allergy test. I let him watch "Ni Hao, Kai Lan" (alone!) while I get ready for work. His dinner doesn't always include those recommended on the food pyramid. Actually, if I can get two of the pyramid's layers, I think I'm doing well.

So when I dropped Cam off at day care this morning, and was pretty much told that the providers were talking about me, I admit I was crushed. Boy-stands-you-up-for-the-prom crushed. Ace-an-interview-but- still-don't-get-the-job crushed. Stay-up-all-night-writing-and-still-get-an-F crushed.

It seems as though some of the ladies feel as though I'm not giving him enough in the morning before I bring him in. He's whiny, my secondhand source told me, so I must be bringing him in hungry.

Did I mention I was crushed?

No matter how irrational it may be, there are two things that I tie completely to my self worth; meaning, failing at one those means that I am a failure. Parenting is one of those things. On the surface, I'm angry. Angry that they have the nerve to talk about me behind my back, instead of asking me straight out what he eats in the morning (for the record, he gets a cup of milk and sometimes some cheerios, which he dutifully throws on the floor for Taz because he doesn't like eating at 6:30 a.m., which is 15 minutes after he wakes up. He can barely walk when he first wakes up, let alone eat.) Angry that they couldn't come to me after I made it a point to speak with them before he started eating breakfast at the day care during which conversation we discussed him drinking milk so as not to fill him up before breakfast (which is at 7:30).  Angry that instead of asking me to bring in sunscreen, they slathered him in Vaseline (from head to toe, including his hair) because the sun "dried" out his skin. Wait, wrong rant. Ignore that last one.

But just underneath the surface -- not far, like scraping a bit of paint from the wall -- I'm disappointed in myself. All this time, I thought I was getting the hang of things, when it reality, I wasn't. I know it's ridiculous to let the unfounded judgements of a few day care providers make me question my self worth, that's how I feel. Even though they don't know that when he first started eating there in the morning, I cooked breakfast for him, only to have it ignored. They don't know that I've offered graham crackers (his favorite) only to have them crushed into fine powder into the high chair. That I have to force him to even drink all his milk; that most mornings, he would rather stop before finishing half the cup.

But I do know that, and still. Still, I feel as though I should have done more -- force fed him oatmeal or applesauce. Wake him at 5:30 a.m. to give him time to want to eat. Something. 


Though I hate to admit it, I'm not yet at the point where I'm not affected by what people say when it comes to my parenting. I am totally and utterly affected by it. But I have to remind myself of Cam's belly; the potruding pot belly that shows me that no matter what they say, he's not starving.

And that, I guess, is something.

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.

Seasons change

For about the past couple of months, I've been feeling some kind of way. Like, I am so sick of myself.

I'm tired of being/feeling negative; I'm tired of letting myself get wrapped up in things that really have nothing to do with me; I'm tired of fighting for things about which I really couldn't care less about.

I'm just tired.

So, for the past week, I have started an experiment. I won't get into specifics about what the experiment entails, but I will say that so far, it appears to be working. (The reason I won't get into specifics is because, frankly, I don't want to be asked about it. It's kind of like going on a new diet plan; every five minutes, it seems, someone is asking how it's going. You eat a hamburger and people are all like: I thought you were on a diet. And in spite of what I am sure would be very well-meaning comments from very well-meaning people, I don't want to hear it. Hearing it, in fact, might actually do the opposite of what was intended.)

I will say, however, that the end goal of this experiment is to come out me, but a happier, more positive version. I will worry less. If it is an important life decision, I will put the burden on God to fix; no worries for me. If it is an important work decision that doesn't directly involve my position, I will let that burden go to the person to whom the job belongs. Again, no worries for me.

Unbeknownst to them, my friends and family are also a part of this experiment. Because in order to keep myself on track, I absolutely cannot get wrapped up in other folks' drama. I cannot allow myself to wallow in problems; therefore, I cannot stand next to you in the pit as you wallow in yours. What I can do is try to help you or, if you don't want my help, pray for you. I can also ignore you. And though I hate to do that, if your conversation, question, concern, threatens to derail the progress I feel I am already making, I must.

Often, I think we -- especially women -- take on everyone's problems. We try to be everything, all the time, for everyone. Frankly, no one (save for Jesus, but even he had to die in order to bear our sins for us) is built to withstand those types of burdens.

This experiment, I hope, will help me to realize that.

Wish me luck!

Hello Spring!

I'm not really an "outside" person. I prefer to sit in the house, pretending as though today is the day I will clean the house, write something, teach Cam how to speak Mandarin Chinese. Usually, I end up doing something like watching back-to-back episodes of Mad Men, taking a nap and watching some of my fav cooking shows (although yesterday, I did  teach Cam where he nose is).

But yesterday, in the spirit of the warm weather, I decided to turn on the grill and cook up a barbecue-style meal.

Instead of making something up, I took out my Get 'em Girls Cookbook (guide to the perfect get-together, their second book) and got to flippin.'  I have to point out first, that in my eyes, the Get 'em girls can do no wrong. You know how sometimes, you follow a recipe to the "t" and it comes out totally unseasoned or undercooked? NEVER happens with this book. Or at least it hasn't happened so far.

Anyway, I decided to make the pulled chicken sandwiches w/ easy creamy coleslaw. I also made something they called gold rush, a delicious cocktail made with lemonade, sweet tea, peach schnapps and coconut rum. Think peach Firefly w/ a hint of coconut. For non-drinkers, just try mixing the lemonade and sweet tea. Delicious!

Anyway, here's the recipe for the sandwiches. I threw the buns on the grill and topped my chicken with the slaw and a slice of pickle. I also had a HUGE bottle of BBQ, so I didn't make my own. Seriously, the work put into this is minimal. This is the type of meal you can cook for a group while you're outside playing cards or dominoes because you're not trapped in the kitchen. If you want the other recipes buy the cookbook -- or both. It's worth it!

2 lbs boneless skinless chicken thighs
juice of 1 lemon
2 tbsp Get'em girl essential BBQ rub (too much to print here, but use your fav rub)
1 c. BBQ sauce (there's an easy sauce recipe in the book, too.)
cole slaw
sandwich rolls (lightly toasted)
dill pickle chips

I started up the grill (you can also do this with a grill pan) and while it was heating, rinsed the chicken under cold running water. Put it in a large bowl and pour the lemon juice over the chicken. Let sit for one minute. Rinse under cold water and pat dry. Rub the chicken with BBQ rub and grill for about 25-30 minutes. Remove from grill and let rest for 5 minutes before shredding with two forks. Stir the chicken into the BBQ sauce in a large skillet. Cook until heated through. Serve and enjoy!