Of Letting Go and Zombies

Wow, been a while since I updated this thing.

I was on FB today (yes, I restarted it- I'm an addict) and saw where a friend of mine's grandmother has been hospitalized and techinically died on the OR table. From what I can piece together, this poor soul has been in and out of the hospital for various wounds, diseases and problems for the past few months. It makes me wonder at what point does one stop praying- or pleading, or hoping or wishing- for the person to live? At what point do you resign yourself to the thought that maybe the person's comfort trumps their extended existence? At what point do you stop praying for longevity and start hoping instead for the comfort of your loved one?

Also, I wondered about paranormal or supernatural things the day before Halloween as I watched- sneakily as I knew it would scare the crap out of my kids- a documentary on the History Channel about zombies through the ages. The Chinese had a zombie called the Jiang Shi. The Arabs had a zombie called a Ghoul. The Vikings had a nearly indestructible zombie, though I forget what it's called. Even the Native Americans had zombies. And of course many African cultures- especially Western African cultures, where it is said voodoo originated- had zombies, and when they were brought to Haiti the zombie turned into the creature we know today- slow, stupid and hungry. Many other cultures' zombies were fast, smart and hard to destroy.

History lesson aside, it really makes me wonder why so many different and widespread societies have things like zombies, vampires, ghosts, demons, angels and God (or Gods). Why do so many cultures have such similar mythological entities when the cultures themselves are so dissimilar? Are they real? Or are all these things inspired by some innately human fear of the unknown, and thus a figment of our collective imaginations?

Right now- my view of his job.*Profanity*

Adapted from the Fort Minor song, "Where'd You Go?"

I said "Some days I feel like shit.
Some days I wanna quit and just be normal for a bit,
I don't understand why you have to always be gone,
I get along but the trips always feel so long,
And I find myself trying to stay by the phone,
'Cause your voice always helps me to not feel so alone,
I feel like an idiot, workin' my day around the call
That when I pick up I don't have much to say
I want you to know it's a little fucked up,
That I'm stuck here waitin', at times debatin',
Tellin' you that I've had it with you and your career,
Listening to your family here saying "Where'd you go?"

Where'd you go?
I miss you so,
Seems like it's been forever
That you've been gone.
Where'd you go?
We miss you so,
Seems like it's been forever
That you've been gone.
please come back home.

I know this is really whiny and I feel like I've kind of lowered my standards by including the profanity, but every time this song randomly comes on during deployments I feel as though it's on for me. Almost like there's some force of the universe that says "It's okay. Be angry. You'll feel better if you let it out and can let some of it go."

The part that always gets me are the lines about staying by the phone and the sense of resentment when you've dropped all your plans so you can talk and when you pick up there's nothing to talk about, and you feel so disappointed in yourself when you think, "What if this is the last time I talk to him? What about all the things I meant to say?"

So on the next phone call you're blathering like a fool, maybe arguing because you needed to clear the air about something, and you wonder, what's the point in this? He's a few thousand miles away! Maybe there's not a point here, not in any of this.

Maybe there's not.

The next time the phone rings, you think about it before you answer, and when it's him, you find that once again you have nothing to say.

I guess we all have days that we feel powerful and days that we are helpless; moments of capablility and failure. At the moment the days of power are so tenuous for me that I feel as though I am simply marking time without a goal, merely a denotation of how long we've been here.

Seems like forever that you've been gone.

College was worth it for this one moment.

I was not always the technical-degree EMT yall know and love. I once went to a real college with brick buildings and ivy and everything. I went to Hollins University in Roanoke, VA for a year and a half. To say that I did badly would be a kindness, and I dropped out.

Anyway, one of the classes I actually enjoyed/passed was German.

And today, almost five grand left in student loans became TOTALLY worth it.

I was at the commissary and saw three German soldiers hogging the 'taters section. I needed some 'taters and wished they'd move. I gathered from their (Bavarian-dialect) converstaion that they didn't know what kind of kartoffel to get. Auf deutsch, I enlightened them and educated them on the uses of Russet v. Idaho. They were very pleasant and didn't say anything about me being a crazy tater eating eavesdropper or anything. They actually thought it was great to meet an American who was interested in their language! One said it helped him feel less homesick. How sweet!

So yeah, college was worth it because now I can tell German soldiers about potatoes.

Maybe I should write a book. Potatoes and the German Soldiers, anyone?

A Gem From My Father

Dad: "Sophie, why did the woman at Lowes card me when I bought a can of compressed air?"

(Please bear in mind that he is SIXTEEN HUNDRED MILES AWAY)

Me:"I have no earthly idea, Dad. Maybe she thought you were cute."

Dad: "I'm sixty-two. I'm no longer cute."

Me: "Maybe she has a quota to meet. Maybe every can of compressed air sold must have proof of patron's carding. Like the till adding up at the end of the day."

Dad: "Well, what makes it okay for eighteen-year-olds to buy compressed air?"

Me: "Because the store can no longer be held liable for their actions after purchase."

Dad: "Sophie. It's not elephants all the way down." (Side note- WTF? I thought we were talking about compressed air?) "I can reason it just as well as you can. I just want to know why."

Me: "Well all I know is this is why nobody asked you when they were discussing this, or ten-year-olds would still be trying to huff compressed air."

Dad: "Do you think they leave the little needle on it when they huff it?"

Me: "No, because it would freeze your elephants off."

**CLICK**

Just a quick note.

You KNOW you are overly emotional with a dash of pregnancy hormones when songs from Toy Story make you sob.

All Toy Story movies are on a day-long ban in this house.

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs is the film du jour (HAHA I MADE A PUN).

Also just wanted to say thank you to my three dearest Hell Paso friends for getting me through the past few days. I'm glad I have yall.

Movin' on.

Picked up the moving boxes today. Thinking about picking up some window paint for the van and doing up cutesy things like "Eastward Bound" and "Virginia or Bust" but I'm not sure I care that much. I've been doing that a lot lately- the not caring thing, that is.

Do you ever get to a point where you just don't have enough energy to care about stuff? I don't think I'm depressed, per say, just tired. What do you do when you feel that way? Can you "make" yourself care?

Well, chew on that, dear readers, whilst I pack.

I deleted my Facebook.

And unbelievably, the world carried on about its business. I had the realization that there were only a handful of people on Facebook with whom I actually spoke on the Facebook platform. Mostly I was just on it to keep tabs on people.

"Oh, they had a baby. Gosh, new babies are ugly."

"My word, he got fat."

"Was it really necessary to update your status nineteen times today?"

Why did I feel compelled to scrutinize every detail when frankly, Facebookers, I don't give a darn?

So anyway, I am offline. Off the hook, if you will. And it feels better than I thought it would. I expected to feel almost bereft until I realized it didn't care enough to feel bereft from snooping.

After a while Facebook started to get really "big brother" anyways, and this allows me to indulge my paranoia.

Afternoon, yall.

A more introspective entry today.

I used to sing little songs to the boys when they were tiny, just little things about their day or about themselves.

One I had, particular to Thing Two, to the tune of Bob Dylan's "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands," went like this:

"Brown eyes baby, in the carseat,
Brown eyes baby, he is mommy's boy..."

And he thought it was just marvelous that he had a song, just for him, just about him, his own little something in a world where everything had to be shared.


A few days ago I was strapping him in to his carseat and began to hum the song, just out of habit, when he said, "No sing, Mommy, I big boy, not baby, no sing." So I stopped, perhaps abruptly, buckled him in and kissed his little head.

But I had to wait a minute before I started driving.  I leaned my head against the side of the van for a minute, and I just wondered, will they remember these little special songs? Will I forget? And for a second I could hear all the songs echoing around in my head and I realized how bittersweet it is to let go of their dependence on me. It's harder than I thought it would be, to watch the "Mommy Years" begin to fade.

So I will put away their songs- songs are not to be shared, after all- and make up a few for the new baby. But I will always miss, and suspect I will always remember, those little songs, those little moments that shaped so much of their babyhood for me.

"Should I leave them by your gate, or brown eyes baby, should I wait..."

Let Us Begin.

This post is stuff that you, my loyal reader, must know.

I am twentyish and mostly average, save for a (self-viewed) scathing wit that I feel I must impress (inflict) upon others. Predictably, not the most popular monkey in the tree.

I have two boys, hereby referrred to in order of age as Thing One and Thing Two. Expecting Thing Three next March. Things One and Two are three and two, respectively. While I maintain that children are a greater terror threat than most known terrorist organizations, mine are some of the most adorable little terrors I've ever seen. It's not just bias. People have said it, so it must be true. The terror part, at least. Still with me?

My husband, known in this blog as Hubster, is a soldier in the US Army (Hooah and such!) and were he writing this blog (ha!), he'd want you to know that he is a Tanker. Death before dismount and all that. He is taller than average, smarter than average, getting to thirty more quickly than he likes and generally a better husband than I deserve. All that nice stuff aside, he is a huge smart aleck and most of the time I have to fight the urge to whack him on the back of the head, in NCIS Special Agent Gibbs fashion. I love that show. I will probably reference it often.

Since "home is where the Army sends us," our current home is a few degrees away from Hell in Northeast Mexico, commonly mistaken for Texas. It's okay, I used to think it was Texas too. I myself am only here for a few more months, as Hubster is deployed and- you can't BUY timing like this- we found out a week to the day he left that we were having Thing Three. So I, along with Things One and Two, are moving home to the safety net of Mom and Dad, AKA Miney and Pop, in the Virginia mountains until Hubster gets back.

And before you feel super-sorry for Hubster that he'll miss the birth of his third-born, think about this: Apparently I am terrifying while pregnant, enough to earn the nickname bestowed upon me (by Hubster, no less) of Pregoraptor. And when he gets back, the baby will be about four months old, super cute and sleeping through the night. Let the sympathy come to me, please.

Armed with the minivan, the excitement of a DVD player in said minivan (my van is old, and no, it didn't come with a DVD player. It barely has a radio. So we bought a DVD player especially for the trip. Also, I DO NOT recommend leather seats in the Land of Endless Sun), and with Pop as co-pilot, we will embark on our twenty-seven hour road trip in mid November or early December. Whee!

Thus ends our first live broadcast from Mommyville. Please stay tuned as updates are pending!

Breaking news. Eating my supper, which I thoughtlessly cut into bite-size pieces. Next time I must remind brain to engage. Feel slightly patronized by myself, if that's possible, like "Self, you are grown enough to write a narcissitic blog, but not grown enough to cut your own food at the table."