Seven Things I've Learned to Love About My Squee

Today isn't just Memorial Day at our house. Today is a special day for Squee and I, the seventh anniversary of the day we walked down the aisle and said "I do".

Somedays, it doesn't seem like we've been together this long. Others, I can't remember what it was like 'before' we were together. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, my life began anew when I met Squee. Some say that their wedding day begins a new chapter in their lives, but for us, it feels like a whole new book. And in seven years, I've been able to do quite a bit of research on this particular novel, and trying to boil down all lessons I've learned with Squee into a handful of ideas hasn't been an easy task, but I feel like I learned them chronologically and each helped our relationship grow.

First of all, Squee has always, always believed in me. When we first met, I was starting my first semester of classes at the local community college, and had all kinds of crazy, half-put together plans and stitched up dreams. He thoroughly believed I could do any of them, that I would do any of them, and he has never doubted me. That sort of unyielding faith in me, in my judgement and my abilities, was something completely unfamiliar to me. Never in my life had I experienced something so humbling, and what's more so, is that after seven years he still has that self- same faith in me, and has taught me how to have that same faith in him.

 Secondly, my Squee is probably the most caring person I've ever met. He doesn't always get the chance to show it, being the man of the house, but this is the man who made me custom shoes for Christmas. Pink Converse Jack Purcell oxfords with custom design tongue and the word "Woman" on the sides, a gift so sweet it had me close to tears. I know for a fact that no one else on the planet would have thought to make me shoes for Christmas, but my Squee did, because he knows how much they would mean to me. They reminded me that I was his Woman, his something special, and I felt blessed when I wore them. Today, they are my 'special occasion' shoes, just because they came from my sweet and loving Squee.

  Squee's parenting capabilities are awesome, something I had always suspected but got to witness firsthand when our oldest was born. With three girls, one would think he'd be chomping at the bit for a boy, or at least hoping for a tomboy. But no, he accepts his daughters as they are, for who they are, albeit they're all very young. Siren is adamant that she is one day going to be a firefighter. Squee is her inspiration, to put it into four year old logic: "daddy was a Marine, Marines are heroes, Firefighters are heroes too, I want to be a firefighter since we already have a Marine." (For the record, she also likes the idea of being a superhero but doesn't want to wear a cape.) He's proud of them, he loves them, and has no compunction with telling them as much as possible. From the first moment he held our Siren, I knew he would far outshine anyone's expectations of him as a daddy, especially his own. I don't know if he realizes he's a great dad, even when other people tell him, but there's a reason that "dada" has been each girls' first word.

 There is next to nothing this man won't endure for his kids. I saw that one first hand on my epic meltdown at Epcot (reference to previous blog entry, Secondary PTSD, Strength and 'She'). I fell apart while he held it together for our daughter, because she needed him to be strong. For a few days, he endured crowds, noise, stress, and a veritable melting pot of all of his nightmares rolled into one, so we could take the opportunity we'd been given to take our Siren, who was an only child as of this vacation, to the Disney parks in Florida. While we were with family, the brother and family my Squee doesn't get to see because they live across the country and who were our amazing sponsors for our trip, and Squee's mom, dad and grandma, his stress level was constantly through the roof. He kept himself fairly composed with medication, but he was still operating at a high level of anxiety the whole time we were away from home. I feel like his willingness to undergo that kind of stress just so she had a normal childhood experience just goes to show his selflessness.

 Squee is so incredibly, unbelievably strong. He has seen things that not even he could understand, lived through moments that could have been his last, and yet he is expected to push those moments aside and focus instead on the now. It's an almost impossible thing to ask of anyone, and yet he does it anyway. On days when even trying drains him physically and mentally, he tries anyway. It's not within my Squee to simply quit. But he isn't just strong, he inspires me to strength. I'll never forget the day in the kitchen not so long ago while I had a nuclear meltdown. I was caring for a screaming newborn baby Echo, Banshee was hanging off my hip, and Siren had just gone bananas with goldfish crackers at the kitchen table. This had been our pattern for the last twelve hours while Squee busted his behind at work, and now supper was going to be late no matter what I did. I felt the walls closing in, tunnel vision made my head hurt, and I was ready to just cry. Squee scooped Banshee off me and into her playpen. Then he took my face in his hands and said someone thing to me that changed how I see myself. Squeeze told me that I was stronger than I knew, that he saw it from the start and it was one of the reasons he married me. He knew how much I needed to hear that, and each day I try, even on the harder days, to be strong because he sees it even when I can't. 

  We have always been Squee's first priority. Whether at work or out with friends to relieve some stress, he never fails to check in on me and the girls, just to make sure we're okay. He takes his role of protector and provider seriously, and although I know how hard it's been for him in light of recent events and attacks within the US, he doesn't demand or insist that we stay home. He fights down the fear and dread that PTSD brings along on every outing, regardless of whether or not he is with us or at home. I feel the fear too, when we go out, and the anxiety that makes my skin crawl, but it's no match for the leg-twitching, heart racing, floor pacing torment he goes through. But we take our kids to the park, we go grocery shopping, we make an effort to get out and have fun with our family, because we are his first priority. If we weren't, he wouldn't be seeking help now. Squee told his therapist as much, one of the reasons I think she likes his attitude. He said he wants to be different for his daughters, and he is working his way towards being as active as his boundaries will allow. Somedays, when PTSD gets the best of us, it will mean we're limited to what we can do. Other days, when he is victorious and feeling good, it will mean new adventures for our girls, and for me, and the chance to see him laugh and smile and know he's truly happy, because he always ensures that his family is happy.

  I did not know what love meant until I met Squee. I had thought, for a long time, that I understood love as an odd mix of emotion, notions, songs, and even Biblical references to what love should be. And then, I met Squee, and all those ideas and poems and verses and feelings suddenly made sense. This was what love meant. I had never met another that I considered changing my life for, but Squee made me want to change for the better. I've never considered myself to be worthy of someone's love and devotion, but he gave it without any conditions. He is the first person I have ever completely trusted, and he appreciates it because he knows how difficult it is for me. He is the man that has been my partner in creating a family, there every step of the way for our girls and for the pain of a lost pregnancy. See, I had never envisioned myself as a mother, until I met him. I think it's because I hadn't met my children's father yet, and when Squee was introduced into my life, so many things fell into place at once. It was as though I realized what moms meant, to be blessed to have kids, and I wanted that with him. He is my rock, my heart, my husband, and for a multitude of traits and reasons I can't even begin to touch, I love him and thank the Good Lord and the stars above that we've been blessed with seven years of marriage, and I can't wait to see what the years before us have in store. I love you, Squee. Happy Anniversary!

A New Angle

Today, as my 'do something for you' weekly activity, I'm sitting at a salon waiting on my turn in the chair to chop off my hair a bit. I truly despise this chore, and got away with my last haircut being by my mother in November (yes, it's May) and I desperately need some TLC to be paid to the coiff, since I can't be bothered to do it myself. So I'm flipping through magazines, blogging, and waiting my turn to try things from a new angle.

My biggest indecision? Bangs. I haven't had bangs since childhood. But aside from them being the new trend that other people are already over, I feel like they would add depth to my look. I'm still unsure even now, although I'm holding a picture of what I want in my hands, but it's not the hairstyle I'm iffy on. I've always been unsure of change.

Thinking about changes takes me back in time seven years to the week before our wedding, when I spent time packing for the first time in my life. I was picking and choosing what was going to come with me to the apartment I was going to share with Squee. I was holding on so tight to such fragile, insignificant things, and took most of them with me. Over the last seven years, many of the things I once saw as vital and important have been scattered or lost, some sold at yard sales and some given away. I've learned to hold on to the things that matter instead. What matters to me is my family, my friends and my faith, and all other things I can let go of, because what matters gives me strength. So, now it's my turn to swivel around in that shiny chrome seat and give a new 'do a whirl. And here I go, without fear.

We chat for a moment about my ideas for a cut, I do the customary showing a picture for a vague description, and the master's scissors start flying. The next thing I know, she has carved this lovely shape into my poofy, frizzy hair. She went so far as to style it a bit to clean up my look, a gift from one mom to another, as we chatted about Memorial Day plans. I got to share that it's our 7year anniversary on the holiday, which she found delightful. But when she was done, it wasn't quite what I wanted.

Now, this is usually where the Quiet PTSD would typically take over, the timid side of me that wouldn't raise a fuss would rise up and I'd bite my tongue and grouse about it later. But no, not this time. I like this stylist enough that I can't hold something against her that isn't her fault. If I walk out this door disliking my haircut, it is no one's fault but my own. So, I swallowed past a lump in my throat and said, politely,

  "Can we go just a little bit shorter on the bangs?"

Sweetest stylist I've had since I worked at a Great Clips, she trimmed them up little by little until she got the perfect length, that "just right" look that I immediately fell in love with. I loved the way it made me feel when I saw myself in the mirror, and that's been hard to come by lately. I feel like somehow, I'm becoming the woman, the wife, and the mom I'm supposed to he, and now I'm making the outer shell resemble the soul inside. It's going to be a long journey, but it will be worth it.

Fatigue

Just a week after getting them, and my sneakers are already scuffed. I see that as a triumph. I'm meeting my goals as I set them, breaking down what I want to do per day. I was never a lists sort of person before PTSD entered our lives, but I sure am now. So far, keeping a list of daily To Do's is what's keeping me on track. The other day, I got out of the house and went to a tanning salon (no judgements, I only go a couple times a year) that was running a special, so I was able to do it for free. I love free, especially on our tight budget. But even if I hadn't been able to get my dose of vitamin D, I still would have gotten out of the house, because frankly I was ready to pull my hair out.

It started with a sleepless night thanks to the neighbor's dog and an overactive imagination. Secondary PTSD is no joke when it keeps you checking windows and doors because your mind keeps turning over the idea that the neighbor's gigantic Mastiff doesn't just bark for no reason, and he never has. That drama bled into an early morning with a baby up and hungry at a quarter after five, and then a breakfast meltdown, courtesy of two kids wanting two different things to eat. After the chaos calmed down a bit, Squee suggested that I go take the coupon from the mailer to the tanning place and take a moment for myself. Normally, I wouldn't. I would say no, find an excuse to stay home or invent a reason I couldn't do something for myself that day. Instead, I jumped at the chance.

But, you know what? I needed to. My less than a hour out break turned out to be one of the most relaxing things I've done all week, and I have been sticking to my promise of taking time for me every day, especially now.

Last week, hubby was put on a new medication for his blood pressure, which is making him absolutely exhausted. So, he's having to take naps when it hits him like a sledge hammer, and I understand why he needs them. Fatigue is a large part of PTSD, sometimes caused by the condition itself and other times caused by the medications used to combat PTSD symptoms. For us, easy fatigue is a daily part of life.

We learned to deal with the fatigue monster early on, when medications got the best of Squee, and then later when medicines no longer worked at all, and sleep happened only in snippets stolen throughout the day,but never the night. It seemed as though insomnia set in about the same moment the sky grew dark and rest couldn't come until it was daylight again. But it was better, I supposed, than the dreams.

I wince now writing about them, those demons that came crawling back for him when he had a moment to close his eyes. Squeeze talks in his sleep often, and has been in a number of flashbacks while doing so. He doesn't recall these dreams, they are his worst nightmares con to life, and I'm grateful when his mind protects him enough to lose the memory of those dreams, but I still loathe the fact that he has them. When fatigue takes ahold of him though, and grips him tight, he doesn't dream, and that is a blessing.

So during my 'off' time, I lay in the tanning bed "soaking up some vitamin D and generally being alone with my thoughts, and I realize that the real allure of a tanning bed isn't the 'afterglow' but the simple and absolute peace and quiet you get when you combine the sound of the bed itself, the fans going to keep you cool, and the ever-present background music tuned to the soft rock /power ballad /hair band station. It's a mindless kind of quiet, and kind of intoxicating. I imagined myself on a sandy beach somewhere, watching Squee teach Siren and Banshee how to build sandcastles while Echo sweetly tore them down. I smiled a little. For a moment, I was there. I had dipped my toes in the  water as I swung Echo up onto my hip. Banshee wanted desperately to show me a shell she'd found, and Siren was attached to Squee's hip again, wanting to know more about dolphins and what she refers to as "big fish". And that moment was delicious. Until my time was up.
The machine cut off, though it was fair to say I'd had a warning, I'd just folded it into my daydream as a cellphone beep and both daydream me and real me chose not to heed the warning. You see, we've never been able to have a family vacation like that, and I know both Squee and I wonder if we'll ever be able to have a family beach vacation, if we'll give our girls the typical family experiences, or if we're doomed to stay inside our shells and by doing so, encouraging them to remain introverted too. These are the things that go through my mind when it's idle, like the moment of indecision when you can't seem to force yourself up off the tanning bed because it's still warm and the air directly outside is much cooler. Eventually though, even I have to admit it's time to stop thinking and get my rear in gear.

Slightly colder since coming quite rudely inside from my fantasy on the beach, I got dressed quickly and cleaned up, and left with a wave goodbye to a busy front desk clerk. Less than an hour out of the house, but my head felt so much clearer, my migraine had almost dissipated, and I felt like I had more energy. Fatigue doesn't just strike our Veterans, you see. Fatigue is a very real enemy of the Vet Spouse, one that I often grapple with, but a little rejuvenation (and time to sleep in on occasion) goes a LONG way in how you feel.

Mother's Day Promises

This Mother's Day, I got a pair of brand new, squeaky clean white athletic shoes. They were the cheap ones from Wal-Mart, a ten dollar pair of shoes that I can't stop smiling over, because of what they represent to me.

I promise myself, when I look at these shoes, that I will wear these out. It's not a goal, it's a promise, like pinkie swears with Siren about ice cream and The Little Einsteins, and I keep my promises. It's not enough that I drop a dress size or fill out my jeans a little leaner than I did a year before. My promise is different. I will wear these shoes out, and I will do it by next Mother's Day, by getting healthier for my children. 

For those who know me personally, you know that while I was carrying Echo, I developed gallstones and had to change my eating habits. A year later, I still have to watch what I eat closely, and that has helped me drop a few pounds already, but I'm not what I consider to be healthy. I can't run full on after the girls. I get winded easily, and I break a sweat with minimal effort. So, it's time to make some changes. 

But, I'm going to do it a bit differently. I'm going to take time, everyday, for myself. As caregivers, especially mom caregivers, we often get lost in our roles and jobs and forget about ourselves, and don't realize we're in the slump until someone gives us the look that asks without words 'are you wearing the same sweatpants I saw you in three days ago?'. I know that look, and thank you Mr. Judgemental Mailman for making me familiar with it. And honestly, it's not just the mailman who's noticed, which leads to the realization that things have got to change.  

So, everyday for next year, I'm carving out 'me time' by taking a few minutes every day to work out, write, create, pamper, laugh, cry, something specifically for me. And these shoes, these simple white sneakers that I'm proud to have this Mother's Day. They are my inspiration to get my backside in gear, like my daughters are my inspiration to get healthy, something to hold me accountable when all I want to do is hold down one end of the couch. I couldn't have asked for a better gift than that.

Happy Mother's Day!