A Disgusting Post About Dead Squirrels

Last December when my brother and sister came for a visit, there was a disgusting stench all through our end of the block. I had literally stuck my head inside the trash can to look for a source, but I concluded that whatever was causing the smell was not my problem. Unfortunately I was wrong. When I published my first dissertation on yardwork and mowing the lawn, I left out one little detail of the ordeal, one little incident that haunted me for weeks afterward. As I mowed along in the back of the house, close to the border of no man’s land, where no one is really responsible for the grass, but within the area I had designated as my responsibility, I came upon the corpse of a squirrel. The look on what was left on his face was rather angry and frightening, but in his condition it was impossible to tell if he really had been that mad when he expired. I quickly turned the mower and headed in the other direction, but every time I came near it I caught a whiff of that awful smell (at least I thought I did, but it may have been psychosomatic), so eventually I just abandoned that part of the lawn and went to mow somewhere else.

Later that morning, when the extremely helpful “mayor” of our housing area came by with plastic bags for spring cleanup (“Now these are for the common areas, not for you”) I asked her if there was an animal control on post that usually picked up dead animals. Her tremendously useful advice was to call my husband. I thought he might be a little far flung for squirrel removal, so I did whatever I could to make her leave (threw the bags in the bushes, waved, restarted the mower) and continued on until all but a small patch in the backyard had been mowed.

Since the spot where the squirrel lay was far from the house and in an area where the children never played, I figured none of them was going to discover it before I came up with a way to get rid of it. Under no circumstances was I going to attempt to remove it, since it looked like it had been there so long, there was some likelihood that it would disintegrate as I tried to pick it up and make an even bigger mess. Every afternoon as I sat with the kids at the playground or trampoline, I would occasionally gaze over at the clump of grass where I knew the squirrel remains remained. If I was a soap opera character, these occasions would have been perfect for the fuzzy slow motion memory sequences, showing me repeatedly turning away in horror at the grisly scene in the grass.

The next time I mowed the grass, the patch around the squirrel was about 8 inches long and growing. My father-in-law was arriving later in the day to visit, and I knew if I asked him to he would get a shovel and get rid of the squirrel, but I really didn’t want to ask him to, because I really didn’t want to ask anyone to. I know some of the neighbors, but none of them seem like the hunting, camping, outdoorsy type (ironic for a military housing area isn’t it?). In Kentucky my next door neighbor was a real outdoorsman, always taking his boys out to hunt and fish and hike and camp. I would have gone running to him in a second, because he probably could have looked at the squirrel, determined how long it had been there, and then executed a flawless plan to remove every trace of him. Fortunately for me and my father-in-law, on the day in question one of the maintenance crew had come to replace my storm door handle. When he was done, he came over to where I was mowing the lawn and asked if there was anything else he could do for me. So I took a chance and told him about the squirrel. “Well, let’s take a look,” he said. When I showed him the body, he said, “He’s been there a good long time.” And then he reached down with his bare hand and picked the thing up with two fingers and carried it off toward his truck. I thanked him profusely and briefly wondered if I should offer him some Purell, but he climbed back in his truck and drove off.

I don’t think I can properly explain the relief and happiness I felt when that squirrel was gone. The stress of finding a way to get rid of it, as well as the stress of making sure the kids didn’t discover it was removed in one fell swoop by a maintenance man who probably couldn’t imagine why I hadn’t just picked the thing up myself. I got the mower back out and mowed the little patch where the squirrel had been, and I was ready to put the squirrel episode behind me. After all, how many times do you find a squirrel corpse in your yard?

Unfortunately for me, the answer is now twice, in two months. Earlier this week I bought some peppers to roast, because roasted peppers are a specialty of the HP which I am sorely missing in his abscence. I went out to start the grill this morning, and there, right next to the house, draped across what I believe are some cable wires, is another squirrel corpse. Clearly, this one cannot be ignored. I called the housing office, but they referred me to the MPs (there is no number for animal control here the way there was in Kentucky). I called the MPs and they took my request for corpse removal, not indicating that it was not within their responsibilities and not indicating that there was anything strange about my request.

Why can’t I just remove the squirrel myself since it is clearly a new body and would presumably come up in one piece if I tried to get it with a shovel? Because I don’t know why it is dead. It is draped across the cable wires, which I know are not exactly power lines, but what if one of them was hot enough to kill the squirrel? Should I stick my shovel in there to find out? What if he had rabies or west nile virus or some other crazy disease. Should I just poke around in there anyway and figure if I wash my hands all will be well? Where exactly would I put the remains for the next 5 ninety degree days before the trash is picked up again? I certainly would not put them in my trash can because I’m sure the trash can would never be the same - I would be the cause of the stench next December.

Although I have sung the praises of the gate guards, they are different from the MPs. It is safe to say that thanks to the gate guards, this is not a hotbed of crime. In fact the only “crime” that occurs with any regularity is speeding. So how does the MP force spend its time? In four man speed traps that set up near the housing areas and day care center. I have not had many dealings with the MPs since I drive the speed limit. But from what I have observed, there is a spare man at the speed traps that could drop by my house and remove the squirrel. I spent all morning and a good part of the afternoon at the house, waiting for the MPs so that I could show them where to find the squirrel. No one came. My previously described Irish temper is beginning to spin again. I will be calling tomorrow to rerequest the removal of the squirrel corpse, this time providing an extensive description of the situation and why I will not be handling it myself (and why my husband will not be handling it). I am gearing up for a battle that may not occur, which is stressful for me, because I’m more of an “everything will work out” kind of girl. But I am starting to suspect that my request was ignored because the MPs think it is stupid. I don’t care what they think, if dead squirrel removal is in their job description, they should come remove the dead squirrel or get another job (I know, I’m such a bad ass). (It’s like the indignant workers at a return desk at a store asking you to explain why you are returning something. “I’m returning it because I don’t like it, and by returning it I help make sure you can keep your job at the return desk.”) If the squirrel remains are not removed tomorrow, you will all be hearing about it I can assure you.

Do you want to know what the saddest thing about this dead squirrel post is? I have a list of other gross squirrel stories that I jotted down in case I needed extra stuff to get to 1500 words. Should any one person (who does not own a copy of the “White Trash Cookbook”) be able to discuss dead squirrels at such length? No, America, she should not.

Showdown at the Shopping Mall

Last night I witnessed a rather horrifying spectacle on TV, that I believe should have been reviewed by my sister since she is much better at mocking TV shows than I am. Since she has remained silent on the matter (hopefully because she did not watch it) I must describe for you the following offering from E! Entertainment Television: To Have and To Hold: Last Bride Standing. First, I must admit that I only saw about 45 minutes of this show which is apparently an hour and a half long. Forty-five minutes is more than enough, especially since anyone who has attempted to watch anything on E! knows that it is the only channel on TV that is organized with commercials interrupted by programming breaks rather than the other way around. Strangely, most of the commercials are for other E! programs that will also be brief episodes between commercials. But I digress…

When I flipped onto the E! channel, I beheld a group of women standing in a gazebo in what looked like an outdoor shopping center. The women were arranged in a circle and each of them had a hand on a huge wedding dress. Even I was able to quickly surmise that they were in a contest to win some sort of wedding prize. I didn’t see the opening scrum, so I don’t know who the contestants were or how they were chosen for this great endeavor. I don’t know how many women started up there under the gazebo, but when I turned it on, the remaining brides-to-be had been standing up there for 24 hours.

I had to find out more. It was about 8:45 when I turned it on, so I figured it would all be over within 10 minutes. But 9:00 came and went, and I realized I was in for another 30 minutes of excruciating anticipation. The show was hosted by a box of hammers named Jason Kennedy, who jabbered away nonstop, and had a serious manner as if he were overseeing international peace treaty negotiations rather than a stupid bride stunt in a shopping mall. He was in constant communication with the secret surveillance booth staffed by people who are apparently experts at staring at a TV. Every so often he would lean to the side and press on his earpiece like a reporter in a war zone and then in somber tones throw the show to commercial with the news that the TV watchers needed review tape to see if one of the unlucky brides had taken her hand off the dress.

When I turned the show on, each of the brides was wearing a pair of pointy white high heel shoes and holding a garter in her hand. The shoes were apparently not a part of the contest at the beginning, they were added later to make the brides more uncomfortable and encourage them to let go of the dress. Some of the brides were wearing socks with the shoes, but I’m not sure if that was a personal choice, or if they had to wear socks because they had started the contest with socks. The garters I later realized were trotted out each time Jason Kennedy (the pile of rocks) came by to offer them a prize that they could have if they let go of the dress. When he was done describing the great prize, he instructed them to hold the garters over their heads, and once he had counted to three (no small accomplishment for him) the first bride to drop the garter would win the prize. The first garter I saw drop was in the hands of a lesbian bride-to-be, and her fiancée, while not particularly scary looking, definitely looked mad that her fiancée had chosen the trip over the dress (and not to be mean, but she should have turned in the $10,000 dress for some dental work).

The remaining contestants included a cute blond single mom, a cute blond hard ass bitch who was supposed to seem sympathetic because her mother and brother were deaf, a 60-year-old who “found love late in life” (a regular 60-year old, not one of those hot Goldie Hawn 60-year olds), a cute weepy chubby girl who had lost 50 pounds for her wedding and was attempting to lose 50 more, and a few other girls who eventually took their hands off the dress, so I don’t really remember what they looked like or what their stories were, because this show was focused on WINNERS.

When Jason Kennedy (running with scissors) next came up to the gazebo, he was holding a pile of boxes which he explained were 10 inches by 12 inches (“I good at geomometry”). The poor exhausted brides were to stand on these boxes, in their high heels, while holding onto the dress, and if they lifted their hands from the dress or their feet from the box, they were through. This brought about another round of uncontrolled weeping from the chubby girl, who I actually felt bad for because I thought she might be carted off to the funny farm if the show went on much longer. She had a harder time keeping her hand on the dress than the other girls, because she had to keep wiping away the makeup that was running down her face.

In case you are wondering how the brides could possibly stand up there for so long without a break, don’t worry, they didn’t. Every so often an air horn would blow (I’m not sure if Jason Kennedy had responsibility for that since he was already in charge of walking and talking at the same time) and the brides would retire to their corners like boxers. Their loved ones would rub their feet and open their granola bars and whisper words of encouragement or growl stern words to “not give up.” The loved ones were much more competitive than the actual brides, and none of them appeared to be the sort of people that you would want to spend a great deal of time with. Perhaps that is why the host did not spend much time interviewing them (that and he already had all those trips up and down the gazebo stairs to concentrate on).

In case you are wondering how anyone could possibly sit and watch a bunch of exhausted weepy women wriggle uncomfortably and hold a dress, don’t worry, there’s more. To fill time between the host’s trips to the gazebo, the producers showed montages of celebrity wedding stuff that they obviously took from other E! Entertainment specials. Since no major celebrities really want E! Entertainment at their weddings, the montages basically included candid pictures of celebrities (sitting in cars or walking the red carpet) interspersed with pictures of buildings that the celebrities apparently did wedding stuff inside. Fascinating.

Not to ruin it for you, but the 60-year old bride was the next bride to drop her garter and claim a vacation prize. She said she was very proud of herself for standing up there with girls who were less than half her age. I think she would have been prouder if she had avoided the contest all together, but if she wants to think she has made a stand for 60-year old women, I’m not going to take that away from her. The next bride to drop the garter was the single mom, who was probably the only one in the contest with the looks and body to pull off an enormous designer wedding gown. Two other girls were eliminated which set the stage for the showdown between the weepy chubby girl and the hard ass bitch. At the last break when the girls were in their corners, both used the phrase “It’s on now!” but when they got back up under the gazebo, the chubby one immediately started weeping again as the host told them over and over again that one of them would go home with nothing, Nothing, NOTHING and one of them would go home with a $10,000 dress and “everything that goes with it” whatever that means. Finally, the weepy girl lost and the bitchy girl claimed the dress. In later footage, they showed her trying on the dress, and she looked, as expected, like she was acting out the “I’m Being Swallowed by a Boa Constrictor (Enormous Designer Wedding Dress)” song. After Jason Kennedy (his accomplishments listed on the E! website included interviewing Paris Hilton – need I say more) asked the weepy girl how it felt to win NOTHING, to go through all that pain for NOTHING, to put forth all that effort for NOTHING, he told her that they were giving her a $6,000 vacation for being such a trooper. She is going to need it if she wants to avoid putting that 50 pounds back on. She needs therapy.

All I could think was “Really? The dress? You’d do all this for a fancy dress that you’ll wear one time? Really???” If I had been in some sort of industrial accident that required the removal of part of my brain and in my foggy existence I had somehow stumbled into an appearance on Last Bride Standing, I would have dropped my garter for the first trip they offered. What people who are not yet married don’t realize is that nobody cares about the dress. Everyone is looking at your face and how happy you are. A few people may tell you that day that they like your dress, but the next day, no one will really remember what it looked like. And then, what do you do with it? Have it framed and hung on the wall? No, you put it in a closet and then in 25 years you offer it to your daughter (if you have one) who, if by some miracle is the same size as you and gets married in the same season as you, would more than likely rather pick a dress of her own.

Many of the weepy brides said that they would never be able to afford that sort of dress without the contest, and I’m sure that is true. However, none of them seemed like they could afford a cool honeymoon either, and I can’t imagine throwing a chance at a great trip away so that you can have a crazy expensive dress. Wouldn’t it be better to start out your marriage by choosing something that both you and your future husband can share? I guess by posing that question I have revealed that I am not destined for greatness as a TV programmer. Clearly the experts at E! know what they are doing, because they even got me to watch it. In my defense I was exhausted, but I wasn’t so exhausted that I couldn’t have flipped away from the show. Maybe the people who put the E! in entertainment know that the audience doesn’t care about the contest, they just want to feel smarter than the people in the contest (and the astoundingly idiotic host – I wonder who reminds him to get dressed in the morning).

2000 Words on Why I Am Not a World Famous Artist, Musician, or Athelete

My view of the debate between private and public schools has always been colored by the fact that I attended only private Catholic schools, from kindergarten right through college. When I was growing up as a DC resident, if your parents could somehow afford any alternative to the public schools, they would always take it. I was so sure that public schools were a ticket to nowhere, that I was shocked to find that large numbers of my classmates in college (including almost all of my friends) had been to public school and had managed to come out without a drug problem, a criminal record, or an unwanted pregnancy. For most of my life, I assumed I would send my kids to private schools because public schools in my mind had a sort of hopelessness about them. However, my daughter now attends a public school, and her sister will go with her next fall.

I don’t know if they will always be in public school, but I have already found a way in which our local public school is far superior to the private schools I attended: the music, art, and physical education teachers are actually trained professionals who are trying to teach children things about music, art, and PE. I had always assumed that music, art, and PE were taught by failed musicians, artists, and losers who had no other way to earn a paycheck so they gave up and became teachers. Angry teachers. Teachers who hated teaching and children.

When my daughter arrived home from her first day of school this fall, she could not have been any happier with her music teacher. She talked about him from the moment she got off the bus until she finally fell asleep. Every Wednesday after that, she would arrive home with another story of how funny her music teacher was, what silly thing he had done that day to help teach them a song or a concept about music. The school year is almost over, and she still loves to tell what happened in music class because she finds her teacher so much fun. He throws himself into his work, making faces, marching around, throwing things, and basically doing whatever it takes to get the kids to participate. As I have previously mentioned, life at my house is one long floor show, and in the back of my mind I have always worried that some embittered crackpot music teacher was going to ruin everything and turn my children against music.

My first music teacher was Sister Annette Cecile, who was as old as the hills when I was in kindergarten, and still she lasted right on past my eighth grade graduation. She would only teach the little kids however, so for the next seven years, I had probably seven different music teachers. All of them eventually broke down in tears in front of the class or disappeared for a long vacation because something about dealing with us made them start to twitch all over. I know kids can be obnoxious, but usually I remember being puzzled by the crying. I never understood why what seemed like the regular amount of bad behavior was so much worse to the music teachers. Probably it had something to do with the fact that while the kids were acting up, they were also not learning or even attempting to learn anything. However, in this instance I blame the teachers. Why should a bunch of six graders have to sit in chairs once a week and sing “The Streets of Laredo” – just because it’s in the music book? Every one of those music teachers had a closet full of instruments, and if they had just passed them out and let us play along, I’m sure they would have found us much more willing to participate.

When I was in high school, every freshman had a trimester of chorale, which was a nun sitting at a piano and urging, begging, and finally attempting to threaten us into singing. It never worked. She played the piano and called out our names to sing solo, and every time she was met with absolute silence. That probably explains why everyone only got three months of chorale during their high school career. After finally working our way through chorale, we were rewarded with three months of “String Experience.” Somehow the nuns had decided that every student could learn to play the violin (or viola or cello) in one trimester, so they kept a huge closet full of instruments so that every freshman girl could get her turn. Once again, we were treated to a nun sitting at the piano as we attempted to play along on our instruments. She was a very happy tone-deaf nun who always shouted “Wonderful girls!” over the screeching of the strings. The only time I saw her upset was at final exam time, when each of us had to play a song (and not a song like “Twinkle, Twinkle” – a song that used every string and finger pattern that she had attempted to teach us). None of us could play it, and she was flabbergasted at how we could have failed to master our instrument when we had the opportunity to play it for forty minutes once a week for three months.

I was equally astonished when my daughter came home from her first day of art class telling me all about Piet Mondrian. Actually, she was calling him Pia Pondrian, but even if she had provided me with the correct pronunciation and spelling, I would have had no idea what she was saying or who she was talking about. Finally, she got out a ruler and some red, yellow, and blue crayons and created a Mondrian prototype for me. Later in the fall she drew a mountain landscape so that she could show me what was in the foreground, the midground, and the background. During the winter they were working on Sumi-e paintings, which Aislinn also had to demonstrate before I knew what she was talking about.

Here is what I learned about art in grade school: if you act up during art class, Miss Bernice will hit you on the head with scissors. Ah, Miss Bernice, the tiny, angry import from Italy who ruled the art room at Blessed Sacrament School with an iron fist (well, iron scissors anyway, as I previously mentioned) for my entire eight years. Every year we did the same pictures: a brown, orange, and yellow fall scene made with construction paper; a snowy winter scene created by flicking white tempera paint from a toothbrush; and finally, the grand finale - cherry blossom pictures made with pink tempera paint and sponges. My mother has told me that Miss Bernice wanted everyone’s pictures to look the same, and she could always tell what we had been forced to add to our pictures. I was so busy attempting to understand what Miss Bernice was saying and trying to stay out of her way, that none of the actual art part of art class sticks out in my mind. In those days, if anyone had asked my opinion of whether there was enough art in the schools, I’m sure I would have said there was too much art in the schools. I would have proposed that surely one class per year to churn out cherry blossom pictures for Catholic Schools Week would suffice.

In high school, I had an art teacher who probably could have taught me something about art, but in my four years of high school I had exactly one trimester of art - three months out of four years. I know other students had more art, but somehow I think those of us that were shoved into honors chemistry and extra Latin were discouraged from attempting anything creative. I think art was kept as a sort of consolation prize for the girls that the nuns thought probably were not going to get by on their smarts. Looking back, that philosophy is almost as upsetting as the glowering face of Miss Bernice as she stormed across the room to put an end to excessive paste application.

But the true crazies lurk in the gymnasium. My daughter is not too fond of her PE teachers, because they yell a lot. I’m sure some of the yelling is necessary, and some of it probably isn’t, because I have seen her teachers and they do look a little mean. However, they have been teaching her things that have improved not only her coordination and flexibility, but her confidence in what she is able to do, whether it is climbing or jumping rope. When I can get her to talk about any aspect of PE other than her teachers’ mean faces, she always describes a new game they have taught her or a new skill they are working on.

My grade school PE experience can be summed up in two words: murder ball. I don’t even know if murder ball is a real game, and I’m sure that someone complained about the name, because eventually it became known as “Greek Dodge Ball” (but I don’t think the Greeks will want to claim it either). My PE teacher's name was Ms. Body, and she was a tan, forty or fifty-something lady who would arrive to the gym late in a sweatsuit and keds, pass out the four-square balls, and then retire to the stage of the gym to smoke while we played yet another round of murder ball. Once a year she would open up the closet where the other PE equipment was kept, and we would have relay races and play jump rope or shoot baskets. Twice a week for the rest of the year, it was murder ball.

When I started high school, I missed murder ball, because my PE teacher was one of the craziest people I have ever encountered (in fact, she deserves 1500 words of her own, so I will keep this part short). She had escaped from eastern Europe right before the iron curtain fell, but I think it may have delivered a glancing blow as she ducked underneath it (actually, the story was that she lost her mind in a car accident). We had to take notebooks to every gym class so that we could record the rules for whatever sport we were working on – rules that she was obviously making up off the top of her head. We had to take ridiculous tests, like the cartwheel off the balance beam test, the forwards and backwards jumprope tricks test, and the ten free throws in a row test (ask most professional basketball players if they’d pass that one). Whenever we played individual sports, like table tennis (her personal favorite) whoever won a match would get an A and whoever lost would get an F. As freshmen we were very upset by this policy, but we soon realized that she had no idea who any of us were or what our names were, so she would just assign everyone a letter grade in a random manner at the end of each trimester.

Looking back, those twelve years in private schools provided me with an excellent academic education. However, those twelve years cured me (for a long time) of any interest in pursuing art or music on my own, just because it might be enjoyable (while my experiences in PE were bizarre, giving up all physical activity never seemed a possibility). All of the joy in those pursuits was removed by teachers in private schools who could not be removed. As long as they were willing to come to work and not beat (excessively) on the children, they were invited back year after year. When I took a painting class about 10 years ago, I found some drawings that I had done as a kid. They were not award winning, but they weren’t bad, and I suddenly remembered that I had really enjoyed art as a kid. I had sat on my bed to color and draw just because it was fun, not because I had too. Hopefully, my kids will always feel that way too about art and music, and hopefully no crazy teacher will change their minds.

Lessons at 6 Months

This weekend we finally celebrated the half way point of the HP’s deployment. When he first deployed, it seemed as if time would never start to pass. We had the holidays to distract us in December, but when Christmas was over, he still hadn’t been gone for a month. January took forever. February was a little quicker, but only because it is so short (thank goodness it wasn’t a leap year). Now, somehow, by putting one foot in front of the other like the Winter Warlock, we have finally found the halfway point. I will not attempt to describe here what the Afghanistan half of this experience has been. While I may be saddled with all the responsibility for the three little nutjobs, at least I have them here, within arms reach, whenever I need a little cheering up. But I think I should take a moment to describe what the homefront experience has been, because in some ways, it has not turned out at all like I expected. I have learned some lessons about life in general and about the people who love us.

Anyone who reads this blog will not be surprised to learn that the first lesson I have learned is: All yard work and trash duty should be assigned to men. As I have repeatedly described in this blog, I have never had any interest in yard work. Now that I have had a turn to push the mower out there under the blue sky and spring breezes, I still have no interest in yard work. I am still baffled by the people in the neighborhood who water their yards, encouraging the grass to grow, as if they can’t wait to cut it again. I hate trying to dig holes to put flowers in, I hate attempting to identify poison ivy, and I hate the squirrel corpse I found in the back yard. I hate having to remember trash day and having to roll that huge can back and forth to the curb. I hate that the recycling must be put out on a different day from the trash, and I hate that the recycling truck is really a trailer pulled by a trash truck, showing that on some level, no one really gives a crap whether you recycle stuff or not.

Lesson Number 2: When my family said they would be there with anything we needed, they meant it. My in-laws have made the seven hour trip to Virginia to spend half a week with us for five out of six months (and they only skipped a month because we went to their house). They have arrived every time with a dinner ready to go on the stove and a cake ready to go for the kids. They have painted things, fixed things, performed all manner of chores that I dislike (like pushing swings), encouraged me to go shoe shopping (well maybe that wasn’t exactly what they said), as well as provided me with a much appreciated break from the weekday routine. My parents have welcomed us to disrupt their quiet beachside existence on a monthly basis and turned their second floor into our home away from home. My dad has happily put aside his paper to dish out Froot Loops and milk every morning that we are there, and my mom has tirelessly come up with things for the kids to play or learn or bake. Both of my parents have assembled more puzzles, sat through more impromptu dance performances, and listened to more rambling stories than even I would be willing to do.

My sisters and brothers and their families have called, e-mailed, visited, or welcomed us into their homes help me fill the weekends with activities to distract the kiddies. One of my sisters got us tickets to see the circus and to see the baby panda at the National Zoo (and let all of us stay in her studio apartment more than once, I’m sure to the detriment of her typical sleep schedule). My other sister has made the five hour journey to see us with three kids of her own in tow or invited us to stay with them, so that the cousins could play and I could have someone to complain to. My sister-in-law has made countless trips to our house with a bag of candy under one arm and presents under the other, untiringly pulling the kids around in the wagon to every playground within walking distance and insisting on doing every domestic chore in my house unless I strong-arm her into a chair with a cold beverage. All of the grandparents and aunts and uncles have put up with endless phone calls from the kiddies who are desperate to talk to someone besides me, and all of them have cheerily endured countless hours of holding one of our kiddies on their laps when I can’t take one more minute of togetherness. In addition, everyone has sent boxes and e-mails and cards to the HP, so that I don’t feel like I have to run to the post office every week. Everyone is doing what they can to make sure that he knows that we think of him every day and we appreciate what he’s doing.

Lesson Number 3: Physical and mental exhaustion helps you sleep. When the HP used to go away for work, I would always have trouble sleeping, and typically would end up dozing on the couch with the TV and lights on every night until he came home. I have a very well-developed sense of paranoia from growing up in what was once the murder capitol of the world, and my overactive imagination can provide me with endless home invasion scenarios. Now I am lucky if I can get my teeth brushed before I fall into bed for a seven-hour coma. I know the HP worked full time before he left, but apparently I was quite reliant on his nightly contribution to carrying the children around and listening to them. Some nights I beg them to just be quiet and watch TV, because I can’t possibly answer one more question like “Are film and batteries the same thing?” and I can’t possibly remove them from the coffee table one more time. When they are finally in bed for the night, an hour can pass as I sit on the couch and attempt to muster the energy to microwave myself a little dinner.

Lesson Number 4: Being a single parent stinks. I can’t say that I really know what it is like to be a single mother because I am not alone. The HP was such an involved and dedicated daddy, that he is still here with us in spirit although he is not here in person. The kiddies can come up with a story about him in a moment’s notice (including one I keep hearing about him running through a red light, which I will have to investigate further in July while he is home on leave), and I can summon him as an parenting ally merely by saying “What do you think daddy would say about that?” But as far as buckling the car seats, packing the lunches, remembering the book orders, and all the day to day drudgery of dishes, laundry, baths, meals, and fingernail grooming, I am on my own. Being on my own is not fun. Single mothers out there, I don’t know how you do it, but I am amazed and intimidated that anyone can do it for a few months let alone for a lifetime.

Lesson Number 5: Our kiddies are awesome. I was prepared for a lot of drama, bad behavior, and tantrums from the kiddies, not because they typically do these things, but because surely they would have to act out their frustration at being deprived of their daddy for a year. Instead, they have behaved like little heroes. All of them have had their moments of crying, and missing daddy, and feeling sad that they can’t have daddy here, but all of them have let me cheer them up and have been willing to carry on with their daily routine (go to school, eat their meals, go to bed on time so mommy can have a drink). They have accepted the fact that they will have to wait until July to see daddy again with a more mature attitude than I can muster sometimes. They love to talk to him on the phone and watch the videos of him reading books and they like to check with me throughout the day to try to figure out his day “Is daddy asleep right now? Is he having breakfast? Is he at work or in bed?” I hate that my two-year-old can say “My daddy is in Affanistan,” but he does it with such calmness and such assurance that it is a temporary situation, that usually he makes me feel better about the whole thing.

So now the wait is on for July. Try as I might, when the HP is done with leave, I will probably start thinking that the year is almost up. I will figure with the start of school and then Halloween and then Thanksgiving, time will blow by and I’ll turn around and it will be December. However, if I think that, I will be kidding myself. Nothing I have tried so far has made the time move faster, and even though we will have only four months to go when he goes back after leave, four months in the fall will take just as long as four months in the winter. We will have visitors, and outings, and trips, but in the end, we will still have to walk through the time, one foot in front of the other, 24 hours a day, for 120 more days. But these six months have shown me we can do it, and when we think we can’t do it, someone will be ready to come and help us out until we can.