Our formerly public-loving baby, who had never met a stranger (other than pediatricians), has entered a shy phase. It coincided, of course, with her daddy's departure out of the country and has become a great source of angst for the Japanese women all over the island who take great delight in hugging her, exclaiming over and stroking her sandy blond curls, cooing a word I can't spell which seems to mean something like 'cute' or 'sweet'. Rather than leaning toward them with arms outstretched like she used to do, she now covers her face with both hands and peeks through her fingers with a coy little smile. It's cute and fairly flirtatious on its own, but heartbreaking to the child-loving Asian women here who want to pick her up.
Thing is, this shyness has also extended to talking with grandparents on the phone and looking at their pictures. She's excited about it, but has to cover her face for some reason. This is understandable, but...She's now even doing it when we're talking to John on the phone. Uh-oh. I'm somewhat concerned that, after missing him for a month, she's going to be kind of shy with him when he arrives home tomorrow. I know that he'll be very understanding of this, knowing that it's temporary and developmentally normal, but he's gone through enough in one lifetime. At least it was only one month. What would happen if it had been longer?
Being a military family is kind of like living with a ticking bomb. You know a deployment is coming at some point, and the longer you go without it, the more the reality looms. John semi-volunteered for one while I was pregnant since it would have been shorter than ones are now and gotten one out of the way before our child arrived. His colonel wasn't willing to let him go and nixed the orders, so to some extent, I feel like we're on borrowed time. I look at my friends and their families in other branches--Army, who are gone for eons; Navy, who are a special breed to be out at sea; and Marines, who need no explanation--and am in awe of their strength and courage. Love and prayers to them all.
Things will right themselves in time. John is the sun of this baby's world, and she won't be able to resist her hero for long.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
O Mein Papa
After the craziness earlier this morning, I let Emily watch "Signing Time!", also known as 'baby crack'. She recently signed "police officer" when I was talking to her about her Papa (my dad). This morning's episode of ST is talking about, among other things, cops and firefighters. She toddled over with the phone, handed it to me, and signed "Papa" with great enthusiasm. I can take a hint, so we called her beloved Papa.
Nana and Papa are revving up for our upcoming trip to the Homestead. They have a custom-built home on 14 acres adjacent to Penn State gamelands that will never be disturbed. It's paradise for them, and a total amusement park for kids. There's a target range out of the basement; a pole barn with boats, tractors, and a Jeep; a pond up the street; a tire swing down by the campfire pit; and more wild animals than you can shoot. Deer spotting is what we do from the living room in the evenings.
Even if that weren't all the case, my dad is an amusement park on his own. He's a former Special Forces, 82nd Airborne, Philadelphia PD SWAT/Narcotics/Bomb Squad guy turned police chief who retired from 40 years of law enforcement a couple of years ago. Of course, he was retired for about 15 minutes before heading to Baghdad to train the new Iraqi police force. We all bit our tongues, because he swore he was going to be teaching classes in the US Embassy, formerly one of Saddam's palaces, and would be entirely within the Green Zone.
Right. That lasted for a couple of days. He wound up kind of expanding his job description into several directions, including revamping the training itself and providing both liaison and security detail for some State Department big-wigs. Of course, he also wound up finding other opportunities to, uh, maintain current firearms skills. He was next to the room where two people were killed by a rocket that came from the Red Zone the night before the elections. His favorite part, I think, was becoming the liaison between the Army guys and the police crew, since he speaks both their languages.
Something about your dad talking about a fully armored Tahoe and walking around in 'full battle rattle' is unnerving when he's already been shot twice. Between those incidents, his previous Army life, and some of the crazier things he did as a Philly cop, he's used up way more than his nine lives already. But in his words, "What a way to go! My grandkids could say, 'Yeah, my granddad died in Iraq when he was 63!!'." The main is an adrenaline junkie, but I have to say that he came back with a white-hot fury against what Saddam Hussein did to the people of Iraq and a pretty sober opinion that going in there was the right thing to do, whatever else has happened.
When he left, it took four people to take over the positions he'd filled/created. They want him back in a bad way, even offering to let him essentially write his own job description for however long he'll give them. Typically they require 6 months or a year, but they want him for as long as he'll stay. He was really getting into his Arabic lessons (he has an amazing ability to pick up languages that I wish he'd passed on to me--my German still sucks). He'd love to go back immediately, but due to family responsibilties, particularly Mom's health, he hasn't been able to yet. But I have a feeling it's coming.
Here are a few pics he shared with us as he underwent a metamorphosis from technological Neanderthal to email-addicted computer geek equipped with thumb drive:
Dad's view on the way to the latrines. He tries to tell people that he had just finished stacking these sandbags, though we all know if that had been his job, he would have found a way to get someone else to do it.
Here's an example of fine Iraqi plumbing.
Out in the Red Zone doing protection for State Department folks and Iraqi generals.
Iraqi Ministry of Justice vs. Tomahawk.
(The Tomahawk won.)
Dad found some of the newest generation of his 82nd Airborne guys and made friends. Is it my imagination, or do these guys look far too young to be holding something sharp??
Some of the young soldiers Dad knew "adopted" a couple of young families nearby. They taught the kids to play soccer, fixed up the houses, and brought a special soccer ball to the one girl in the group who was generally ostracized by the boys. Their moms would be proud of these young men.
What Dad refers to in cop lingo as "Van of Concern".
This is Dad's idea of keeping safe in the Green Zone. He went out and made friends with some guys on guard duty and volunteered for a turn searching for "Targets of Opportunity".
Dad at the Hadji Market. He wound up having to send home several Persian rugs to Mom. He learned to be more selective about which pictures he sent home to her.
Dad, uh, "going fishing" like normal retirees.
The Embassy mascot puppy. Dad swore that dog was not coming home with him, but we all know perfectly well that dog was this close to being smuggled onto a C-17 to Ramstein.
One of Dad's favorite Gurkhas in front of a giant head of Saddam that was pulled down from atop the Presidential Palace. All the guards knew Dad and would shout their name for him, Arabic for "old man". He called them, well, a name from South Philly. My dad has never met a stranger.
Yeah, my dad's pretty cool. I'm getting excited to see him and Mom next week despite the thorough and irreperable spoiling of my toddler that will ensue for the following two weeks.
Nana and Papa are revving up for our upcoming trip to the Homestead. They have a custom-built home on 14 acres adjacent to Penn State gamelands that will never be disturbed. It's paradise for them, and a total amusement park for kids. There's a target range out of the basement; a pole barn with boats, tractors, and a Jeep; a pond up the street; a tire swing down by the campfire pit; and more wild animals than you can shoot. Deer spotting is what we do from the living room in the evenings.Even if that weren't all the case, my dad is an amusement park on his own. He's a former Special Forces, 82nd Airborne, Philadelphia PD SWAT/Narcotics/Bomb Squad guy turned police chief who retired from 40 years of law enforcement a couple of years ago. Of course, he was retired for about 15 minutes before heading to Baghdad to train the new Iraqi police force. We all bit our tongues, because he swore he was going to be teaching classes in the US Embassy, formerly one of Saddam's palaces, and would be entirely within the Green Zone.
Right. That lasted for a couple of days. He wound up kind of expanding his job description into several directions, including revamping the training itself and providing both liaison and security detail for some State Department big-wigs. Of course, he also wound up finding other opportunities to, uh, maintain current firearms skills. He was next to the room where two people were killed by a rocket that came from the Red Zone the night before the elections. His favorite part, I think, was becoming the liaison between the Army guys and the police crew, since he speaks both their languages.
Something about your dad talking about a fully armored Tahoe and walking around in 'full battle rattle' is unnerving when he's already been shot twice. Between those incidents, his previous Army life, and some of the crazier things he did as a Philly cop, he's used up way more than his nine lives already. But in his words, "What a way to go! My grandkids could say, 'Yeah, my granddad died in Iraq when he was 63!!'." The main is an adrenaline junkie, but I have to say that he came back with a white-hot fury against what Saddam Hussein did to the people of Iraq and a pretty sober opinion that going in there was the right thing to do, whatever else has happened.
When he left, it took four people to take over the positions he'd filled/created. They want him back in a bad way, even offering to let him essentially write his own job description for however long he'll give them. Typically they require 6 months or a year, but they want him for as long as he'll stay. He was really getting into his Arabic lessons (he has an amazing ability to pick up languages that I wish he'd passed on to me--my German still sucks). He'd love to go back immediately, but due to family responsibilties, particularly Mom's health, he hasn't been able to yet. But I have a feeling it's coming.
Here are a few pics he shared with us as he underwent a metamorphosis from technological Neanderthal to email-addicted computer geek equipped with thumb drive:
Dad's view on the way to the latrines. He tries to tell people that he had just finished stacking these sandbags, though we all know if that had been his job, he would have found a way to get someone else to do it.
Here's an example of fine Iraqi plumbing.
Out in the Red Zone doing protection for State Department folks and Iraqi generals.
Iraqi Ministry of Justice vs. Tomahawk.
(The Tomahawk won.)
Dad found some of the newest generation of his 82nd Airborne guys and made friends. Is it my imagination, or do these guys look far too young to be holding something sharp??
Some of the young soldiers Dad knew "adopted" a couple of young families nearby. They taught the kids to play soccer, fixed up the houses, and brought a special soccer ball to the one girl in the group who was generally ostracized by the boys. Their moms would be proud of these young men.
What Dad refers to in cop lingo as "Van of Concern".
This is Dad's idea of keeping safe in the Green Zone. He went out and made friends with some guys on guard duty and volunteered for a turn searching for "Targets of Opportunity".
Dad at the Hadji Market. He wound up having to send home several Persian rugs to Mom. He learned to be more selective about which pictures he sent home to her.
Dad, uh, "going fishing" like normal retirees.
The Embassy mascot puppy. Dad swore that dog was not coming home with him, but we all know perfectly well that dog was this close to being smuggled onto a C-17 to Ramstein.
One of Dad's favorite Gurkhas in front of a giant head of Saddam that was pulled down from atop the Presidential Palace. All the guards knew Dad and would shout their name for him, Arabic for "old man". He called them, well, a name from South Philly. My dad has never met a stranger.
Yeah, my dad's pretty cool. I'm getting excited to see him and Mom next week despite the thorough and irreperable spoiling of my toddler that will ensue for the following two weeks.
It all happens when the hubby is away
First the fleas, now this.
A little background: Hickam has been having a major rash of robberies in recent weeks right in the immediate area of our house. Seriously--they've walked off with a 52" TV and stolen a truck out of the driveway in the middle of the day, though much of this seems to occur when the officer is TDY. So everyone's on heightened alert around here.
Emily woke crying around 5am (hey, it was only the second waking, so it's much better than it's been lately!), and I went in to get her. Just as I got there, I heard this massive bang and CRASH somewhere in the house.
Funny what goes through your mind in a nanosecond: Where was that? Seems like it lasted forever. Was it the TV downstairs? Should I check it out? Great time to have a German Shepherd tucked away for the night in her crate... downstairs. I can't do this with a baby, and I can't leave her alone just in case. Close the door. Wait--I left the phone in Emily's bathroom after talking with Kristen during Bug's bath. I should call Security Forces. No, it's probably nothing and they're gonna think I'm an idiot. No, they're not. Yes, they are. Well, maybe, but you have a responsibility to Emily first. You're right in the zone of the robberies and John's away. Call them. Oh, man, I really don't want to. Call them. Fine. All in a flash.
Good news is that this time they found our house (last year, during an apparent visit from the spirit of Jerry Springer involving John's ex, they couldn't find our house), and no sign of forced entry. They searched the house and found the cause: the large glass mirror on the master bathroom door had chosen to commit suicide in dramatic fashion on the tile floor. Oh, good grief. I feel like such a moron. Why is it that I'd be adamant with any of my friends that calling 911 was absolutely the right thing to do in the totality of circumstances, but I feel like such a fool?
And how is it that fleas and household gremlins always know when your husband is TDY? There's a veritable sea of glass covering the bathroom floor, which is going to be quite an adventure to clean up with my ever-helpful toddler.
My consolation prize is that John is coming home earlier than expected (well, later than expected initially, now earlier than was expected next, as is typical of military exercises!). This little incident couldn't have waited 48 hours, I guess.
Ah, well. My life is an exercise in humility.
A little background: Hickam has been having a major rash of robberies in recent weeks right in the immediate area of our house. Seriously--they've walked off with a 52" TV and stolen a truck out of the driveway in the middle of the day, though much of this seems to occur when the officer is TDY. So everyone's on heightened alert around here.
Emily woke crying around 5am (hey, it was only the second waking, so it's much better than it's been lately!), and I went in to get her. Just as I got there, I heard this massive bang and CRASH somewhere in the house.
Funny what goes through your mind in a nanosecond: Where was that? Seems like it lasted forever. Was it the TV downstairs? Should I check it out? Great time to have a German Shepherd tucked away for the night in her crate... downstairs. I can't do this with a baby, and I can't leave her alone just in case. Close the door. Wait--I left the phone in Emily's bathroom after talking with Kristen during Bug's bath. I should call Security Forces. No, it's probably nothing and they're gonna think I'm an idiot. No, they're not. Yes, they are. Well, maybe, but you have a responsibility to Emily first. You're right in the zone of the robberies and John's away. Call them. Oh, man, I really don't want to. Call them. Fine. All in a flash.
Good news is that this time they found our house (last year, during an apparent visit from the spirit of Jerry Springer involving John's ex, they couldn't find our house), and no sign of forced entry. They searched the house and found the cause: the large glass mirror on the master bathroom door had chosen to commit suicide in dramatic fashion on the tile floor. Oh, good grief. I feel like such a moron. Why is it that I'd be adamant with any of my friends that calling 911 was absolutely the right thing to do in the totality of circumstances, but I feel like such a fool?
And how is it that fleas and household gremlins always know when your husband is TDY? There's a veritable sea of glass covering the bathroom floor, which is going to be quite an adventure to clean up with my ever-helpful toddler.
My consolation prize is that John is coming home earlier than expected (well, later than expected initially, now earlier than was expected next, as is typical of military exercises!). This little incident couldn't have waited 48 hours, I guess.
Ah, well. My life is an exercise in humility.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
T minus one week
John's return from Australia was delayed by several days, so he'll be leaving next Wednesday. However, in the joys of international travel, he'll actually return on Tuesday our time. Emily is definitely missing her daddy, as noticed by her carrying around his command portrait--frame and all--while saying and signing "Daddy" with the most delighted squeals. Then she signs "stars" because of the flag in the background. She's over there now, lying on her tummy and babbling at the picture, periodically running over to me to sign "Daddy" and laugh.
Well, I flea-bombed the house today. Good times getting the cat into the carrier, the dog crate into the car, the dog into the crate (which required picking up a terrified German Shepherd and tossing her in), and wrangling the baby out of the street and into her car seat as well. Thankfully, I'd arranged to leave Emily at my dear friend Diana's house with her five boys and two babysitters while the two of us bolted from the house and off to get pedicures. Woohoo! Desperately needed girl time, during which we started making plans to visit Japan, where she and her crew were stationed last. Then I hung out at our dog trainer/great friend's house for another few hours while the house aired out. I have to say that, for this phase of our life, living on base is such a blessing.
(Quick note on local culture: who knew that pedicures could be such a big thing? At the recent squadron picnic, we discovered that I was the only woman there with bare toes. Huh. I hadn't noticed it before, but pedicures with fancy little flowers and crystals and such are a big, big thing here. Well, when in Rome, right? And it's amazing how a little chick time, a massaging chair, and fabulous toes can lift one's flea-bitten mood.)
Well, it's time to get the furless of my charges bathed and ready for bed. In the next few hours, we'll see how much progress I've made in Operation Flea Massacre: wish me luck in letting my legs heal from looking like raw meat!
I know, poor John... missing all this. Hmmmm... he'd better bring me back a koala bear.
Well, I flea-bombed the house today. Good times getting the cat into the carrier, the dog crate into the car, the dog into the crate (which required picking up a terrified German Shepherd and tossing her in), and wrangling the baby out of the street and into her car seat as well. Thankfully, I'd arranged to leave Emily at my dear friend Diana's house with her five boys and two babysitters while the two of us bolted from the house and off to get pedicures. Woohoo! Desperately needed girl time, during which we started making plans to visit Japan, where she and her crew were stationed last. Then I hung out at our dog trainer/great friend's house for another few hours while the house aired out. I have to say that, for this phase of our life, living on base is such a blessing.
(Quick note on local culture: who knew that pedicures could be such a big thing? At the recent squadron picnic, we discovered that I was the only woman there with bare toes. Huh. I hadn't noticed it before, but pedicures with fancy little flowers and crystals and such are a big, big thing here. Well, when in Rome, right? And it's amazing how a little chick time, a massaging chair, and fabulous toes can lift one's flea-bitten mood.)
Well, it's time to get the furless of my charges bathed and ready for bed. In the next few hours, we'll see how much progress I've made in Operation Flea Massacre: wish me luck in letting my legs heal from looking like raw meat!
I know, poor John... missing all this. Hmmmm... he'd better bring me back a koala bear.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Whole Lotta Scratchin' Going On
So here I am, alone, with a 19 month old baby girl and a 17 month old dog. Two toddlers at the same time, which makes me question my sanity when I told John we could get Azzie. But, despite my strong fondness and preference for golden retrievers, John adores German shepherds, and when he saw Azzie last month, his face had an expression I've only seen once: at our wedding reception when I asked him if he was ready to leave for the hotel. I couldn't say no to the dog.
The name "Azzie" wasn't our choice. The breeders had named her Azera, but I have a hard time naming a dog after a Hyundai. We debated "Azure" for the amazing skies here in Hawaii, and "Azaria", which is derived from the Hebrew for helped by God. Cool. While we've chosen a more formal name, after 48 hours of calling her Azzie, I realized there was no way John would be able to call her anything else.
One of the things that living in Hawaii has taught me in the last few days is that, contrary to my previous understanding, one's house can absolutely get fleas even when all household pets are flea-free. WHAT?!? Of course this has to happen while John is on another continent. Thankfully, Emily seems to be escaping their onslaught due to the 'baby in a bag' (a.k.a. Halo SleepSack), but I have apparently been chosen as their preferred delicacy. The folks at the local pet store freaked out when they saw my legs, ankles, and feet, which look like a nasty attack of chicken pox. And I also have bites in places that bites, well, simply shouldn't be. Ugh.
All this reminds me of my horror when I discovered ants in our kitchen in Charleston. We called the complex's exterminator, who snickered at my mortification and said with a wink, "Ah, you must be a Yankee, huh?". Apparently we Yankees move down to South Carolina and flip out when we discover bugs, since in the north, avoiding that is usually a matter of keeping a clean home. He assured me my kitchen was pristine and that this was merely part of Southern living and you just kind of roll with it, much like the palmetto bugs. (For those of you who haven't lived in Charleston, "palmetto bugs" are big-a** roaches that FLY, but Charlestonians, who are quite insistent on this term, seem to think that calling them palmetto bugs bestows Southern charm. It doesn't.)
Another little tidbit: the reason I was getting these tiny sugar ants on me while doing e-mail was because, Mr. Exterminator informed me, they enjoy the vibration of the wires behind the electronics. You read that correctly. I have to admit that the concept of these little ants back there gettin' jiggy with it creeped me out more than finding them on my counters.
After a year in Charleston, we were sent to Germany, where our landlady was baffled by our inquiry as to why German windows do not have screens. "How else would the flies get out?", she asked. Indeed. The flyswatters that I'd used as a teaching tool came in very handy throughout the renovated barn we lived in, so John can't complain that the teaching supplies that he's now schlepped across 18 time zones haven't come in handy.
So, I now have a variety of flea treatments for the house, most of which require evacuation for a few hours of all things that breathe or keeping kids and pets off the carpet for 24 hours. Frankly, neither of these options is all that easy for one woman wrangling a baby, a dog, and a cat who thinks the dog's sole purpose in life is to torment her. I'm currently devising a plan combining the powder, sprays, and bombs in phases depending on who is sleeping at the time. Wish me luck in the strategy.
Oh, next time I should mention the centipedes here--a foot long is not uncommon--but if you'll excuse me, I have to go scratch myself raw. Ah, the price of paradise....
The name "Azzie" wasn't our choice. The breeders had named her Azera, but I have a hard time naming a dog after a Hyundai. We debated "Azure" for the amazing skies here in Hawaii, and "Azaria", which is derived from the Hebrew for helped by God. Cool. While we've chosen a more formal name, after 48 hours of calling her Azzie, I realized there was no way John would be able to call her anything else.
One of the things that living in Hawaii has taught me in the last few days is that, contrary to my previous understanding, one's house can absolutely get fleas even when all household pets are flea-free. WHAT?!? Of course this has to happen while John is on another continent. Thankfully, Emily seems to be escaping their onslaught due to the 'baby in a bag' (a.k.a. Halo SleepSack), but I have apparently been chosen as their preferred delicacy. The folks at the local pet store freaked out when they saw my legs, ankles, and feet, which look like a nasty attack of chicken pox. And I also have bites in places that bites, well, simply shouldn't be. Ugh.
All this reminds me of my horror when I discovered ants in our kitchen in Charleston. We called the complex's exterminator, who snickered at my mortification and said with a wink, "Ah, you must be a Yankee, huh?". Apparently we Yankees move down to South Carolina and flip out when we discover bugs, since in the north, avoiding that is usually a matter of keeping a clean home. He assured me my kitchen was pristine and that this was merely part of Southern living and you just kind of roll with it, much like the palmetto bugs. (For those of you who haven't lived in Charleston, "palmetto bugs" are big-a** roaches that FLY, but Charlestonians, who are quite insistent on this term, seem to think that calling them palmetto bugs bestows Southern charm. It doesn't.)
Another little tidbit: the reason I was getting these tiny sugar ants on me while doing e-mail was because, Mr. Exterminator informed me, they enjoy the vibration of the wires behind the electronics. You read that correctly. I have to admit that the concept of these little ants back there gettin' jiggy with it creeped me out more than finding them on my counters.
After a year in Charleston, we were sent to Germany, where our landlady was baffled by our inquiry as to why German windows do not have screens. "How else would the flies get out?", she asked. Indeed. The flyswatters that I'd used as a teaching tool came in very handy throughout the renovated barn we lived in, so John can't complain that the teaching supplies that he's now schlepped across 18 time zones haven't come in handy.
So, I now have a variety of flea treatments for the house, most of which require evacuation for a few hours of all things that breathe or keeping kids and pets off the carpet for 24 hours. Frankly, neither of these options is all that easy for one woman wrangling a baby, a dog, and a cat who thinks the dog's sole purpose in life is to torment her. I'm currently devising a plan combining the powder, sprays, and bombs in phases depending on who is sleeping at the time. Wish me luck in the strategy.
Oh, next time I should mention the centipedes here--a foot long is not uncommon--but if you'll excuse me, I have to go scratch myself raw. Ah, the price of paradise....
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Winds of Change
The trade winds have returned. Oh, thank goodness. Hawaii, while paradise in many ways, is insufferably humid and sticky when the air stills, which it did for awhile lately.
But on our evening walk, we were able to play in the breezes coming off the inlet to Pearl Harbor. There's a large grassy park area just up the street where one can let a dog off-leash and run like a fool. Now, I'm no fan of running (while at the FBI Academy, I told them that I run either "after" or "away from"... i.e. if one of us has a gun, I'll run), it's infinitely more fun when doing so with a baby and a German Shepherd.
While playing with Azzie, I turned to find Emily laid flat-out on the grass, staring up at the sky. She was signing to herself--"moon", "cloud"--and gazing in delight at the azure skies. How does a child of one and a half know to do that? I went and joined her, which amused her to no end. We had such a great time enjoying the beauty of the sky and the setting sun, and stood with arms spread and faces upturned to feel the cool evening breezes over every inch of our bodies.
There's a lovely half-moon out tonight, and I think one of my favorite visions on this planet is the shimmer of moonlight on the top of palm leaves. Fortunately, there are coconut palms all around our house, so I can watch this out of my bedroom window at night.
These are the moments it feels so good to be alive. Thanks, Lord, for giving me the chance to see it through a baby's eyes and to show her the value of soaking it all in.
But on our evening walk, we were able to play in the breezes coming off the inlet to Pearl Harbor. There's a large grassy park area just up the street where one can let a dog off-leash and run like a fool. Now, I'm no fan of running (while at the FBI Academy, I told them that I run either "after" or "away from"... i.e. if one of us has a gun, I'll run), it's infinitely more fun when doing so with a baby and a German Shepherd.
While playing with Azzie, I turned to find Emily laid flat-out on the grass, staring up at the sky. She was signing to herself--"moon", "cloud"--and gazing in delight at the azure skies. How does a child of one and a half know to do that? I went and joined her, which amused her to no end. We had such a great time enjoying the beauty of the sky and the setting sun, and stood with arms spread and faces upturned to feel the cool evening breezes over every inch of our bodies.
There's a lovely half-moon out tonight, and I think one of my favorite visions on this planet is the shimmer of moonlight on the top of palm leaves. Fortunately, there are coconut palms all around our house, so I can watch this out of my bedroom window at night.
These are the moments it feels so good to be alive. Thanks, Lord, for giving me the chance to see it through a baby's eyes and to show her the value of soaking it all in.
Welcome!
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Welcome!
There's so little time, and the lack of personal contact as we all move around the world is something that John and I feel intensely. I'm hoping that this might be away to keep in touch a bit more easily with the family and friends we hold so dear.
Looking at the changes we've been through in the past four years, I wish we had started this sooner. For a remarkably skilled computer geek married to a touchy-feely type, it's rather surprising that we hadn't. But I trust we'll be able to document some of the adventures and experiences we have as the military moves us from time zone to time zone.
Presently, John is running the comm side of a joint military exercise in Australia. Yeah, Australia. Rough gig. I'm here taking care of a 19-month-old baby and a 17-month-old German shepherd, and in serious need of either a massage or a Mai Tai. Ah, well, it's hard to complain when you gaze out the windows at the sparkling azure waters of the inlet to Pearl Harbor. Stay tuned for more info...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)