Like Firefly Light

When I gave birth to Jules, in the same 24 hours I was ready for her to go to college.

Sending her and her younger brother to sleep-away camp for the first time — in a pocket of rural Tennessee thick with trees, mud and bugs — it felt too soon.

It also felt I was given a new lease on life.

We're at 20 years of marriage today and for more than a decade rarely get a night, let alone several days, alone. If we do it might be spent watching World Cup matches.

As the thick heat of summer sets in here, there are three trips to the neighborhood pool in one day. Cole concocts otherworldly, underwater battles and surface skirmishes with the strength of a synchronized swimmer. His colorful, 3D-printed reptiles and aquatic dinosaurs (swimming marine reptiles he calls them more accurately) are dashed through the water with powerful, crashing sound effects. He's clad in goggles and fins, rolling and diving with the grace of an otter. When forgotten momentarily, the creatures float brightly. Then are lined up in rows that reflect categories or to create a tense, lying-in-wait riverbank scene.

Jules snaps a pic for us while
Cole does his trademark move.

It had cooled off a little. A heat wave was hitting Europe. As we prepared for our latest and longest lake trip, Cary says, "I'm so glad we aren't in France right now, going to Paris like we thought we would."

I scream at him, laughing. Our summer wedding day was as heated as our life discussions. A trip to Paris, Tennessee it is. I love the irony so much it's worth it for the laughs, like the pure martyrdom of being married to a stand-up comedian.

I want a record player. We got a 3D printer. There's not a lot of space in our townhome so Johnny Cash on vinyl will likely wait.

Cole inspects each of the pool filters upon arrival every time. Beetles. Wasps. Frogs. Cockroaches. Spiders. He’ll rescue frogs that are alive, rinsing them off with the pool hose since we learned chlorine will kill them if exposed for too long.

We read together most every night and if I'm holding the book, he'll sometimes run his finger over the dimple he's discovered on my wrist. The one created by the angle of holding something, the dip between your tendons. He asks what it is, tries to recreate it in his own wrist but is still too pumped up with collagen. He sets his thumb in mine when I tease it's a spot that will always perfectly fit your kid's thumb so you know you belong to each other. Neither kid believes me of course but my youngest likes the overly sweet joke.

He's turning brown as caramel again.

Jules is growing. More in mind than height, and I worry the latter will affect how people view the former. She's tiny and observant, determined and funny. Makes dramatic silly faces and does a spot-on goblin voice. Up for travel. Needs privacy at unexpected moments. Wants every subject or activity to be solely arts and crafts. Silent as a mime then talks a blue streak before bed or when she's excited. An old soul we have to remember to safeguard still.

I dread the moment when my hand won't really span the width of their backs anymore. When our holding hands doesn't make me feel invincible, because I've got them and they're invincible with me.

The other day Cary and I looked up where we had our first date in the fall of our year abroad, on Google Maps. It's there. The Indian restaurant we walked to from the Newbold campus, him taking the outside on the sidewalk to "protect" me. Food so spicy I drank a pitcher of water. He mentioned wanting to be a pilot in the military one day. I was agreeable, more focused on the waiter kindly interrupting to provide me with more water.

The best parts have always been the wanderlust, together, adding to the crew when possible. Plants nursed back to life after transport, a beloved dog we'll always remember. Cole planking and Jules creating. Life takes bravery and the companions and careers you pick or pick you lend both spicy sparks and cool you down when the temperature gets too high.

Our time huddled together happy or busy or tumultuous is fading, like the wake of our old boat with the big engine as we leave a cove we swam, snacked, yelled and talked in for a long time. Dispersing into memory. Queue the Interstellar music on the mobile speaker.

We dropped them off for camp in the rain and picked them up in the rain. We had date nights while they got mosquito bites.

Cole didn't get homesick. Jules glared when we picked her up, taking her away from new friends. Cole grinned big and was a little quiet, his voice soft and demeanor calm after a week of socializing and movement. He drank OJ every morning after downing the camp's mandatory glass of water. Jules got the "tough cookie" award after falling off her bunk bed and barely crying. She defended Cole from a rough kid. They taught us the songs and games they learned. They went barefoot into the mud pit at the end of a hike. Jules gave herself a mud updo. Cole didn't have soap in the shower all week but confidently said he used water.

The stories trickled out. Cicadas their own soundtrack.

Cary rescued baby ducks out of the pool while Cole was gone and took pictures. Cole was shocked he missed it. We had noticed the fireflies are back visiting, their flickering lights as magical and hard to focus on as ever, like time, and we were eager to show the kids.

They already knew of course.

Disgrace Under Fire

The stegosaurus is known for its small brain, 
the size of a walnut. We have a lot in common sometimes.

I wish I could say confidently that I am a boss, but I really am such a child in many of the stressful moments of our moving military family lives.

However I will say it would break some others. Like a really nervous pet?

I have learned that getting my nails done and buying things like a $20 pink Himalayan salt lamp — which the kids and their friends would later dare each other to lick during sleepovers — helps me be less of a wreck. Something about some new, mood-adjusting piece of cheap decor or little tech gadget, or a refreshing health shot in a glass bottle, or the best nail art example I could find on the internet, makes renting furniture or eating off a paper towel standing up just fine.

If I'm being honest, often it's a glass of wine too. Or two. Maybe an IPA.

Other times it's a movie seemingly made just for me. Or the silliest show for the youth of today, but they can't watch it because they have homework. An indulgent book. A bunch of charcuterie items with no one to share them. Or a new alpha generation slang term I get to use around the kids to see what they do. Perhaps including a new accent I'm trying out.

It's saying no to things that make me miserable, while saying yes to things like olive oil lattes and yes, I'll plan the date night so I get to have it.

It also helps to write down the stressful things, see the humor, try to make someone else feel better.

It's been seven moves in 15 years. Sometimes every two years. Same goes for jobs, and at times more often because lay-offs, pregnancies and a pandemic can happen. Same goes for homes, schools, doctors, haircuts and haunts.

Same goes for commutes where I'm flying down a highway I don't know how to keep up with, hitting pot holes I didn't know were there, and wondering if I should carpool with these confident speedsters to get myself to work quicker in the heart of the city.

Same goes for threats of a snap deployment that leaves me single again. (The Navy uses other phrasing, but that takes more words to explain and nobody cares.)

At one point it hit me. Being a military spouse and parent really has become my identity. Oof. Why do I feel this way? Everyone has an identity and it's not always what they intended. No person has only one layer, yet there's an outer one we maybe can't help but fight as it takes over. Like that weird "cover the Earth" Sherwin Williams paint ad. I crave in equal parts adventure and normalcy and achievement. Often a tough three-legged stool to build. I teeter quite a bit.

But we're also explorers and Gumbies.

We've lived longer elsewhere and on-the-go than in our hometowns.

What else would we really be doing?

Ha! Sometimes I'm so mad I scream into the void. Then it's one breath, one task, one joy, one challenge charged through clumsily, one unexpected win. And I see him out of context. Passing each other on the drive home with a wave I actually see, or reuniting after splitting up the kids for different things at another foreign-to-us local event. And I know it's because I'm happy. The kids we take care of together are happy, running towards me from somewhere else.

The grass is a little yellow everywhere.

Bamahenge