30 July 2011

As my hand floats above the publish key....

When I started this blog, I saw it as a way to get some of the political and analytical stuff out of my brain and onto a page. There was some fun vignettes, but nothing much very personal. I find that is changing.

What I have been writing is, as they say, much closer to home. Some from the joy of the great family I have, some from the challenges of solo parenting and dealing, alone, with the sheer amount of crap that you have to deal with as a military spouse.

I am also no longer publishing a quasi-anonymous blog. I never worked hard to hide my identity, but I also never put this blog out there as me. Only a very small number of people knew this space as mine. Now I am linking here from places that have my identity.

So it is taking me a while to publish. Some because I am thinking hard about the benefit before I publish something with raw emotion. Some because there are organizations that I think need a good strong airing out and some direct sunlight, but providing that puts some of my volunteer work in danger. I need to make sure the needs I fulfill are covered before risking that.

So there will be a couple housekeeping posts. About how this space is me and my opinions and not anyone else's. And about what I will do with comments (spam deleted, pretty much anything else is a go unless it is seriously ugly).  And the dates on things might be funky, as I dither about what to post and what to just save.

Bear with  me. Thanks for reading. Talk to you soon.

22 July 2011

Packing Day

The bags are out and open. Every clean, horizontal surface is covered. With clothes. With papers. With gear. With stuff.

There are lists. Fifteen of this, ten of that. What to put in which bag. What not to bring.

We ply the littles with movies and snacks. The baby with milk and toys. We are on edge.

You sip a beer, slowly. You won't have another for months.

I look at it all. There will be no boot blackened socks to bleach. No t-shirts to soak the sweat out of. I won't carefully transfer the patches to a clean uniform in order to wash the one you insist you can get one more day out of. How long before I stop bending over to scoop up the pajamas you leave, every morning, next to the hamper? How long before it is real? This empty place in my home, in my heart.

Tomorrow there will be lazy morning coffee. And good food. And wine with dinner. And the beach. And then the next, we will do this. You do this thing that you are called to do. I will be here. Brave. True. Strong.

But not today. Today is packing day.

Today I am undone.