Happily ever after…or something like that

It’s a momentous time in our house. This is officially the longest Jared and I have ever lived together consecutively — one year, five months and a few days. We’ve been married for seven years.

I’m only 26. And we only dated for six weeks.

I met Jared in the Army. I was at Fort Lee, Virginia, lamenting the fact that I’d have to forego a career as a paratrooper or run the risk of shattering my pelvis (or feet) and thus jeopardize my chances of having children. In short, I was having a pitty party for myself.

I befriended a girl who was also injured. For three weeks, all I heard about was this guy who was soooo gorgeous. I felt like I knew him before he even came back from jump school. When he returned, I thought my pal would burst in a fit of giddiness.

“There he is!” she yelled in a whisper to me at the chow hall. I looked. I saw this short, brown-haired guy sitting there and in my head, I said “Big whoopdie doo” as I mentally twirled my finger in the air.

He was so not my type. I was into blonde-haired, blue-eyed preppy guys. This Texan did not impress me. In fact, I remember taking one look at his name tape and saying to my buddy, “God help the woman who marries him, because that’s one hell of a last name.”

Yeah, Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?

So, fast forward about eight months. I was a brand new journalist who still managed to end up at Fort Bragg, North Carolina despite not being a parachute rigger. This “Ski” guy wasn’t in my unit, but we shared a barracks. I noticed he really kept to himself and wondered who this arrogant guy thought he was.

But he volunteered as a firefighter at a local station so I didn’t figure he was all bad.

When September 11 happened, I really wanted to write a story about Jared, given the fact that he was a soldier and firefighter and an American hero, blah, blah, blah.

In short, he told me no. (Actually, I believe the more accurate version is “hell no” but I could be mistaken.)

Just after Veterans Day, he asked me to a movie. In short, I told him no. (Actually, I believe the more accurate version was “hell no” but I didn’t tell him that to his face.)

In January, after much pestering and persuasion, he consented to the story. We spent the last week of January at the station after work. He all but ignored me as much as possible. Turns out his buddy had the hots for me (as he so eloquently put it) and didn’t want to intrude.

I wasn’t interested. In anyone. At that point in my life, boys were stupid.

But I found myself staying at the fire station with Jared until 2 or 3 a.m., then would turn around and get up for PT at 6. When Jared went home for three weeks Feb. 1, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from him again.

He was kind enough to call me and tell me he made it the 25 hours to Texas OK, though. And then he called me a few days later. And the day after that. And then we pretty much talked every day until Feb. 19. He decided to come back early.

It seems he missed me.

He hit the road and finally knocked on my door at 1:44 a.m. Feb. 20. We married April 3. Five months later, he left for Afghanistan. Seven months apart from your spouse is hard. Especially when you factor in the mortars. And the fact that the guys in his unit had a bet going to see how long it would be until I cheated on him.

They didn’t know me very well.

His second deployment was to Iraq for a year. It was odd knowing Jared had lived with the guys in his unit longer than he’d lived with his wife. Deployment #3 was also to Iraq — 14 months this time, courtesy of an extension.

Four years and three deployments. To everyone’s surprise, we were still married. People often ask me how I deal with him being gone so much. “What’s your secret, Kamryn?” they ask me.

Heck if I know. I want to know how women live with their husbands. Every.Day.Of.Their.Lives. I sometimes think it’s harder to live with your spouse. Who knew ill-placed dirty socks and Dr. Pepper cans could be such a challenge?

I wouldn’t trade it for anything though. Our time apart has created an awesome foundation to build a marriage upon. I realized while I was in labor with my second child that Jared and I act more like friends who happen to live together and have a marriage certificate filed in a crappy courthouse in North Carolina.

Maybe that’s the secret.

(Oh yeah. That story I did about Jared? The worst one I’ve ever written.)

Conversations from a fitting room

* The following story is based on a true story that occurred in a department store fitting room. Names should be changed to protect the identity of the parties involved, but that would spoil all the fun, wouldn’t it?

Kamryn: OK, Lilah, let’s head in to the fitting room to see if Mommy can wear any of these clothes.

Lilah: Why do you have new clothes, Mommy?

Kamryn: Because Mommy’s other clothes don’t fit very well anymore.

Lilah: Why?

Kamryn: Because I had two babies.

Lilah: Did you have me? And my sister?

Kamryn: Yes, I did.

Lilah: I’m not a baby. I’m a big girl.

Kamryn: I know. But you were little when you were born.

* I have now unsuccessfully tried on three pairs of pants. Disheartened, I move on to the bathing suits, because that should make me feel better, right?

Lilah: What’s that, Mommy?

Kamryn: It’s a bathing suit.

Lilah: Did you get a bathing suit just like you got me a bathing suit?

Kamryn: That’s the idea.

Lilah: Are we going to the beach?

Kamryn: We can if I can find a bathing suit that fits your whale of a mother.

Lilah: You’re a whale like Shampoo?

Kamryn: …….

Lilah: Mommy, why are you a whale like Shampoo?

Kamryn: Because I need to exercise.

* This is where things start going down hill…as if they haven’t already.

Lilah: Is that your boobie, Mommy?

Kamryn: Yes. Now use your inside voice.

Lilah: I don’t want to use my inside voice. Do you have two boobies, Mommy?

Kamryn: Yes, I have two boobies. Please lower your voice.

Lilah: DO YOU HAVE BOOBIES BECAUSE YOU’RE A BIG GIRL?

Kamryn: Yes! Now PLEASE lower your voice! It’s not nice to yell in fitting rooms. It hurts people’s ears.

Lilah: Daddy doesn’t have boobies because he’s a big boy?

Kamryn: That’s right. Boys don’t have boobies.

Lilah: MY DADDY DOESN’T HAVE BOOBIES LIKE YOU HAVE BOOBIES. YOU DON’T MATCH.

Kamryn: I know we don’t match. That’s OK.

Lilah: IS YOUR BRA FOR YOUR BOOBIES??

Kamryn: Yes. Lilah, if you lower your voice I’ll buy you M&Ms.

Lilah: *whispering* OK, Mommy.

Subliminal advertising

Warning: Reading this blog may cause dizziness, bleeding, erectile dysfunction, insomnia and the urge to call all men “Paul.” You should ask your doctor if these symptoms persist for more than three weeks with the exception of the last one, which you should report immediately because that’s just plain weird.

Have you seen the commercial for one of the newer acid reflux medicines?

The only thing better than a drug named AcipHex that treats acid reflux would be a drug named AcipHex that treats diarrhea.

Pure.Genius.

And what about this book?

The story’s main characters are Little Nutbrown Hare and Big Nutbrown Hare. But I dare you to read this story to your children without saying Little Brown Nuthair and Big Brown Nuthair. Instantly, a G-rated children’s book turns into an X-rated story for people with rabbit fetishes.

And lastly, I leave you with this.

Unfortunately, in the last line, the commercial now says “an extraordinary snack.” Shucks.

A substitution for depth

Today is my oldest daughter’s birthday. I had every intention of writing a deep, meaningful blog pondering the meaning of life and how awesome it is to watch your children grow.

But since I was up at 1:30, 4:30 and 6:30 a.m. with the little one, I have Friday Pudding Brain on, well…Friday. See? Mush. I didn’t even realize it was Friday. Except I know tomorrow is Saturday because we’re taking Lilah to Sea World (where she said she’s going to see Shampoo, by the way.)

Yeah.

You know who you are

I like to think of myself as a glass-half-full kinda gal. Did you ever see the episode of Friends where Phoebe stays on hold for two days? (OK, I’m exaggerating. But it was a long stinkin’ time.) I do that. I find it hard to hang up because I believe if I just stay on the line, I’ll be the next one. Call me eternally optimistic (or naive if you’d like).

So I took my naively optimistic self shopping for new work clothes because childbearing has wreaked havoc upon my body. I searched (and searched and searched) for pants while Mayer took a siesta in the shopping cart. After deciding I should go on a 1,000-calorie diet and promising to exercise every day if I could only fit into non-double digit trousers (which didn’t happen, by the way. That’s another story.), I made my way to the fitting room and saw only one (currently occupied) handicapped-accessible stall.

So I waited.

(On a side note, I tried on a pair of jeans yesterday at a store and almost choked when the fitting-room attendant asked if I wanted to take Mayer into the fitting room with me. Ummm…no. I’ll just leave her out here, thanks.)

I checked my facebook messages from my phone. I made mental notes of which tops I could wear with which bottoms. I watched the lady in the handicapped stall shuffle her legs in and out of approximately 72 pairs of pants. I checked the time on my phone.

I’d been waiting for 15 minutes.

I debated whether or not I should head over to the mens fitting room, but figured she’d be done in just a minute. After all, a shopping cart could only hold so many pairs of pants, no? Time check: 20 minutes. Thank God Mayer was still snoozing. Then I felt bad because Fitting Room Hog could have a baby in her shopping cart too.

I decided to do one last lap around the store to see if anything else caught my eye. Upon my return, I checked the time. 30 minutes. Holygoodgracious. Finally, I see her dirty feet slip her sandals back on. (Public Service Announcement: Please be kind to other people’s eyes and ensure your feet are clean when wearing anything less than a steel-toed boot.) 

She opens the door (at 35 minutes, if you’re still counting) and wheels her cart out of the door. I see about three things in there, and a baby is not one of them. I give her the evil eye and wheel my sleeping beauty in the stall. Fitting Room Hog has left all 72 pairs of pants in the stall. After seeing the condition of her feet, this doesn’t surprise me.  I won’t lie — I wanted to dump my half-full glass on her head.

So.

The moral of the story is, if you don’t have a stroller or shopping cart with a kid in it, please don’t use the handicapped stalls. I realize I’m not handicapped myself, but I read somewhere that people frown upon leaving kids by themselves in stores.

This also goes for elevators. If nothing traveling with you has wheels, please use the stairs or the escalator. It’s actually faster than waiting for the elevator anyway.

Now, deep cleansing breaths…

My cherry post

Hmmm.

Why is it I have so much to say when no one is listening, but when faced with a blank text box I choke? It’s a bit like stepping to the mic in comedy club and realizing you don’t even remember your name, let alone your act.  (Hello? Is this thing on?) Except I do remember my name. It’s Kamryn, and you are witnessing the deflowering of my virtual hymen. A good image, no?

Yes, in the world of Army lingo, this is my cherry post. And here I sit rambling away about nothing. All of my pithy thoughts have vanished and I’m left with keyboard that is mocking me. I feel the pressure. After all, this and this serve as my inspiration-of-sorts. Have you ever taken your car to the shop because it was pinging and clanging only to have it straighten up and act right when it entered the service drive? Yeah. That’s me right now. Only reversed. Or something like that.

I have high hopes though. I’ll chalk this one up to stage fright.