Happy Birthday

Today would have been my dad's birthday.

I think it of it, every year it passes, and have for the past 20 or so years. But moreso this year. It's been 10 years since I had my first colonoscopy and I'm scheduled for my second.

But I'm five years late. Five years of giving birth, of being pregnant, of NOT having a primary care physician who would tell me that no, don't wait, you need to be screened every five years. Five years late, and just four years younger than my dad was when he died. Needless to say, I'm terrified.

Being a younger person being screened for a disease that doesn't usually require screening for those younger than 50 isn't as easy you'd think. I called my insurance company. Several times. I called doctors' offices. I called the insurance company again. One office refused to see me (the appointment taker exclaimed, "You're not 50!" when I gave my birth date, as though that was news to me). I called the office back and pleaded my case. It wasn't office policy. I have no symptoms (that I know of). When I told a coworker that making this appointment could be a matter of life or death, I wasn't exaggerating. If it's not found early, most people die.  I kept calling. I got insurance codes to read back to my insurance company. My insurance company made calls. I finally got an appointment.

So now, here I am two or three weeks out from my appointment with a little box that contains what will undoubtedly be the worst "cleanse" one could imagine and a mind full of thoughts that go between positive thoughts and negative ones and pragmatic ones and a heart that is getting a little more fearful than I'd care to admit.

I have my step-by-step  instructions - 5 days before; 3 days before; 1 day; day of. It's my timeline. My mental calendar ticks it off. Three weeks, 2 weeks, then the instructions begin.

But, in the meantime. I go to work. I do mom things. I cook. I'm a wife. I play with the dog.

And afterward, I want to go home. Sleep. I won't cook that day. Call my brother for his birthday. But otherwise, do those same things. For many, many more years.

The long road home (a Part 2 of sorts)

So, I obviously didn't intend for more than a month to pass before I wrote part 2. But, in the words of a former supervisor, "Such is life in the big city." I don't understand it, but somehow it works here.

Anyway, to recap: My toddler, my 14-year-old dog, my sister and I are living in a room in my friend's house before making the 10-hour trek to Mississippi. Why didn't I fly? Why didn't I drive? Well, in a misguided attempt at big-heartedness, I told my mom I would bring her a bedroom suite. All we'd do is rent a U-Haul, hop in, ship my truck ahead to Arizona and be on our merry way.

Except: Those ads that promise a U-Haul for 20 bucks? Doesn't work like that for a state-to-state trip. The cost of the rental truck was quickly promising to eclipse the value of the set. Plus, all but the hugest trucks had just two seats, which means there was no way all of us would fit. So one of us had to drive the moving truck, while another drove my SUV. After finally finding a truck that wouldn't completely break the bank (I settled on Penske), my sister and I loaded things up. That night, we prepped everything so we could leave by 7 a.m. Of course, things were looking TOO good because put the lock on the truck the wrong way and had to resort to buying bolt cutters and chopping the whole thing off.

Putting that frustration behind me, we got on the road the next morning, prompt as ever. My sis had gotten a chance to drive the moving truck around the block and felt comfortable taking the first leg in the truck, while Cam and I rode together. Ten minutes into the trip, not even out of Columbia, Cam has to poop. I pull into the nearest gas station (which actually turns out to be closed down, but that's OK because it was a run-down restaurant and the owner just so happened to be there to let us in.).

Sis pulls into the "station" behind me and rolls past me to wait. The next thing I know: Boom! She hits me! Needless to say, we swap vehicles. About 12 hours, 4 stops, one audio book (for me) and several Korean music CDs (for her) and we FINALLY made it to moms.

And that, my friends, ended my life in Columbia, SC. But of course, it just made way for my new life in Arizona. Which, if I get another extra few minutes, I'll have time to share this week.

The misadventures of a new Reserve spouse - Pt. 1

Today, on the third day of the new year, I'm sitting outside on my back porch sipping coffee. Both I and my son are wearing shorts. Whether South Carolina state employees believe it in true that in that state, I can say without a doubt, it's a good day in Arizona.

Granted, his play is being just a bit hindered by the fact that his shoes keep getting stuck in the rocks that make up our back yard. And forget that I've come outside in part to escape the moving boxes and packing paper that seem to be somehow growing. What matters is that for the first time in several weeks, I'm in a place at which mail is delivered in my name. I'm at peace.

Here is our bedroom in the midst of the move.
All the scattered belongings on the floor were put into
"keep" and "trash" piles before the movers came.

At the beginning of December, I began getting our South Carolina house ready to be rented. To catch up those who didn't know, my hubby officially left the active duty Army this fall and got a job in Phoenix. After a whirlwind weekend in Phoenix, we chose a house in nearby suburb Surprise (yes, that is actually the name of the city). He moved there in October, and soon after, I had nearly all our belongings shipped to our new house. For almost a month, my son and I camped out in the master bedroom, which was the one room in the house in which there was furniture. Soon, I'd moved some of that furniture down too, leaving me sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and he sleeping in a sleeping bag. I'd rushed it in anticipation of the renters who wanted to move in mid-month. Renters who, days before I planned for them to move in, decided that they had changed their minds.

Since the moving dates had already been set, I saw no reason to change them. Then the real adventure began. I, the boy and the dog moved from our one room at our house to one room in a friend's house. I thank God for her, because I don't know anyone else who would take on two people and a dog while waiting for her husband to return from a deployment.

Despite the comfort of having a place to live for the next few weeks, I still had a few qualms. The house had not yet been rented. I had no job prospects in Arizona. The house needed major cleaning, holes needed to be filled and marks on the walls needed to be touched up with paint. And, if I had not already grasped the reality that the Army safety net I'd learned to depend on was now gone, seeing money for the mortgage come out of our own pockets did the trick.

Needless to say, I had my work cut out for me. And then, my sister moved into the room with us.

To be continued ...

Crystal Clear: I'm moving on

For the first time in six years, where I live -- and how we pay for it -- won't be taken care of by the Army. And when I make a phone call about health insurance, child care or, anything really, the person on the other line won't care about my sponsor's Social Security number. Because come this fall, I will no longer be a dependent; I'll just be a civilian.


And so will my husband.

While he will be going into the Reserves, I would be lying if I said that leaving the "traditional" Army family doesn't give me pause. There's just something about the security the military brings. For one; I've never had my own health insurance. And two, the relationships I've made since my husband started his career are invaluable. I can probably count on one hand my close friends who have no military affiliation whatsoever.



It's hard to imagine not heading to the Commissary or the Exchange to do my shopping. And what will my social calendar look like without the regular "Hail and farewell" dinners, Family Readiness Group meetings and military balls? And of course, many of my friends will go on to new duty stations in different cities, states, or even countries, while we forge ahead in this new civilian life.

While I am not saying goodbye completely -- as an Army civilian, I know I am still part of the Army family and the Fort Jackson community -- it still won't be the same.

When I married into the Army in February 2005, I didn't know what I was getting into. I took my first flight just months before on a small prop-plane that flew me into Fort Sill, Okla., where my husband was attending his officer basic course.

And while most people think our wedding date was chosen to center around Valentine's Day, the truth is a lot less romantic -- we chose a date that gave him two weeks to help plan the wedding and two weeks to pack for his new duty station in Germany where I joined him three months later.

Truth be told, I wasn't too keen on the military lifestyle at first. I found out a year or so later that just days into landing in Germany, I'd somehow already offended a bunch of people I'd never met, most likely based on someone not understanding my unusual sense of humor. That was the first of many misunderstandings I had, most of which I can now look back on and laugh.

Despite those missteps, I enjoyed being an Army spouse. I dove in headfirst, being assigned the task of FRG co-leader before I even really knew what the FRG was. I joined the spouses' club, and was even on the board before we headed back to the states. I made a number of friends, many with whom I am still in contact today. Friends that, during our husbands' deployments, knew when to get me out of the house and when I just needed to be left alone. For every Soldier who knew me as "Lt. Brown's wife," there was a spouse who knew him as "Crystal Brown's husband."

When we left that first duty station three years ago, in addition to German wine, I brought home some lifelong friendships and some lessons learned. But, unlike the wine, those lessons will stick with me. And, hopefully, so will the friendships.

So in a month or so, when my Soldier officially becomes Mr. Brown, I will be losing a big part of something that has been a major part of my adult life. And frankly, it's scary. But I know that having been a part of this family is something I will never forget, and something that has made me and my family stronger.

Day 4: Veggie burritos

  Day 4 was, without a doubt, the best so far for me. I'm not thinking about coffee quite so much, plus, I enjoyed some pretty good meals. Last night's dinner was veggie burritos. Even though we don't celebrate Cinco de Mayo, I decided to go with that theme anyway for dinner. In lieu of a margarita, I have my ice cold water with lime slices.

 

The burritos were pretty easy to make (whole wheat tortillas are allowed on the fast). I first made my salsa, which was really more like a pico de gallo. I chopped up a couple of tomatoes, added some diced white onion, cilantro, fresh jalapeno, kosher salt and squeezed the juice of one lime over the whole thing and let it sit while I chopped and cooked up the rest.



This photo shows only half of what was cooked.



For the burrito filling, I chopped up a peeled sweet potato and used a trick I learned from another recipe to cook it. I put the potatoes and a little water in a microwave-safe bowl, covered it in saran wrap and microwaved it for about 5 minutes. That makes it soft enough to sautee, but not mushy. While that was microwaving, I started the rest on the stove top.I put a little olive oil in a pan and let that heat up before adding chopped garlic, 2 chopped bell peppers (all I had was orange and yellow, which did nothing for the color but added to the "sweet" taste), and half of a large white onion. I seasoned it with salt, pepper and ancho chili powder (all I had on hand).

 

Once the potatoes finished cooking, I added them, plus the water, to the pan and added a bit more salt because I'd forgotten to salt the water. After about 2 minutes, I added a can of black beans, which I'd drained, and about two cups of chopped baby spinach. I added about a pinch of salt and some cumin; not sure how much, I'm pretty liberal with it. All in all,  a pretty satisfying meal. I was stuffed!

 

Ingredients:

Salsa:

1/2 chopped onion

2 tomatoes

cilantro

lime

1 jalapeno (I only used half, feel free to use the whole thing. Take out the seeds for less heat.)

Kosher salt

 

Burrito filling:

1 medium sweet potato

1/2 onion

2 bell peppers (any color)

2 cups of baby spinach, chopped

1 cup black beans, drained

Kosher salt (to taste)

Black pepper (to taste)

About a tbsp Ancho chili powder

Tbsp of cumin



The finished product



Day 3: bean curry and brown rice

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Siggghhh ..... that's the sound of a satisfying and filling meal at the end of a day pretty much marked by hunger. Don't get me wrong, my fruit and nut salad, was pretty good, and my stuffed peppers hit the spot at lunch, but despite all my planning, I've yet to feel full while on this fast. Until now.

This recipe came from the Daniel Fast site, and we had big bowls of it for dinner (my husband had some for lunch). One thing I would do differently is to spice it up a bit more. But it's full of beans -- lentils, garbanzo and kidney. I actually used cannellini beans (white kidney beans) because I was out of the regular kind. And I still have enough lentils leftover to throw into another curry or make soup with. This also turned out a bit "tomatoey" for me, so I'd probably add a bit of veggie stock. One tip though: All vegetable stocks aren't made only of vegetables! I had to look through all the brands before I found two that did not contain sugar! The one I got, Kitchen Basics, was $2.50 or so, and the other kind was an organic brand that cost nearly $5. It's amazing what has sugar in it. This fast is really opening my eyes to how many chemicals we put into our bodies without even knowing it.

Later on tonight, I'll cut up the rest of the veggies for tomorrow night's stir-fry and figure out what to cook for breakfast, which is so far, the most difficult part of this fast so far! But for now, I will relish not hearing my stomach growl; for a while, anyway.

Daniel fast Day 2: stuffed peppers

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As part of our church's fitness ministry, we are embarking on a weeklong Daniel Fast. I've been waiting in anticipation for the fast so I could test out some new vegetarian recipes that Jamil wouldn't ordinarily eat. For those unfamiliar with the Daniel Fast, it is a spiritual-based partial fast, which limits you to a vegan diet with a few more restrictions; the only beverage you can drink is water, no bread that contains yeast or other leavening agents and no sweeteners. So Sunday, I made my menus, my shopping lists and I filled my cart with fast-friendly stuff.

I think we can call Monday a success. I made this delicious sweet potato chili with tortilla chips on the side. The chips weren't so good, but the chili was great, which is why I have no photo -- it was all gone before I could take one! The hubby took it to the church to share, and although he said they were a bit apprehensive at first, they enjoyed it.

For the peppers, pictured above, I loosely followed this recipe, swapping veggie broth for chicken, leaving out the cheese and forgoing the basil sauce because of the creme fraich it calls for, though I think with some practice, I can do it with tofu. I failed at my attempt to make a flat bread; I ate it, but DH called it "horrible." I will try again tonight though.

Yesterday was a bit tough; I think that having a pretty filling breakfast is going to be key on this thing. The first day, we had oatmeal, which held me pretty well, along with my snacks. But yesterday's smoothie was nothing. I was starving by the time I hit my chair at work. This morning, I had some of the huge fruit salad I made Sunday (kiwi, strawberries, bananas, pineapple) and added some pecans.

One thing I have learned so far is that preparation is key; as easy as it is so say I will "pray about it" when hunger pangs hit, I think that God gave us the good sense to plan ahead. When I knew I would be out to eat Monday, i visited the restaurant's website to pick out some suitable choices before I even got there. And I took some juicy grapes and my bottle of water to last night's sorority meeting to stave off the temptation of meatballs and chicken nuggets.

Anyway, I will definitely make sure I "get in the scripture" before this weekend; I'm not sure how the Daniel Fast will mix with our family trip to Myrtle Beach this weekend!

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.