Books Featuring Sarah's Essays
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Sample Shore Duty Columns
Due to contracts and syndication rights, Sarah Smiley's columns are not regularly available online. However, we've put together some of her best, most requested pieces as a sneak peek for those of you who don't yet have Shore Duty in your hometown paper (and you are the people who should be emailing the managing editor of said hometown paper immediately!).
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Sarah's Most Requested Columns
Baby Dolls Get Best of Military Pilot Trained for War
Some people are afraid of clowns. I get that. These people don't go to the circus and they don't hire clowns for their child's birthday party. Other people are afraid of birds, thanks to the 1963 Alfred Hitchcock movie. They avoid aviaries and don't buy pets with feathers. My husband, Dustin, the highly educated military pilot trained for combat, is afraid of something else. Dustin is afraid of baby dolls.
"I don't like the way they stare at me," Dustin says, adding that he thinks dolls switch places and run around the place, possibly with knives, each time he leaves a room, only to get back into their original position when he returns. Dustin is especially afraid of antique dolls, the kind that have blinking eyes and are losing some of their wiry hair. Unfortunately for him, my grandmother in Missouri has truckloads of these dolls. We stayed at Grandma's house last week while she was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack, which was not doll-related.
Grandma has two new life-size dolls, held up with metal braces that my son Ford (6) observed were "going up the doll's bottom," standing in her living room. This is how Dustin was greeted upon entering the house. I saw him shudder. But we were with my dad, a retired admiral and once my husband's active-duty superior, so Dustin had to pretend the dolls didn't bother him. He bravely walked past one that came up to his knees.
My mom, an antique collector, also has an impressive (or, "gruesome" if you are like Dustin) array of old, plastic dolls scattered around her house in Virginia. Some of the doll's heads are loose and wobble on their necks. A few of the blinking eyes are stuck closed; the others just look cross-eyed. Most of my mom's collection is so old, the plastic is sticky and there are exposed "pores" on the scalp where clumps of hair have fallen out. There was a least one occasion when my mom traded dolls with another collector on eBay and a set was shipped with the heads in one box and the headless bodies in another. Luckily, Dustin wasn't there to see that.
But my mom is sensitive to Dustin's fear, and she hides the dolls whenever we are visiting. Then, Dustin opens the closet to put away his clothes and finds a pile of naked dolls, with their heads twisted sideways, or worse, backwards, staring at him from the top shelf. He doesn't find this nearly as funny as my mom and I do. In any case, given the fact that most people shield Dustin from baby dolls, he was taken back by all the "staring dolls" in my grandmother's house.
"Your room will be the first one on the right," my mom said as Dustin came through the living room with another load of suitcases. Dustin turned to enter the room and said, "Oh God!" There was a pile of baby dolls on the bed, each of them staring up at him even though their bodies were facing a different direction. But Dustin was going to be brave, and perhaps employ things he'd learn at SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) school. He would not mention the pile to anyone else.
About an hour later, I went with my mom, dad and the kids to the grocery store. Dustin stayed behind to do work. As we were pulling out of the driveway, I had a vision of Dustin bound and gagged in my grandmother's basement. The dolls, of course, would be back in their original places.
When we got back from the store, Dustin was tired (presumably from fighting off dolls), so he headed off to bed. While he was brushing his teeth, my mom took pity on him and moved the dolls. Only she forgot one waist-high girl standing in the corner, next to the bed.
Dustin finished in the bathroom, said goodnight to everyone, and went into the room Mom had said was "his." He closed the bedroom door. A few minutes later, Dustin ran back into the living room and practically jumped onto the couch like a kid running away from an imaginary monster in the middle of the night. By this point he didn't care that my dad was there or that he himself is a grown man. He huddled his knees up to his chest and said, "The doll says that room is hers."
Big Heads, Small Shirts
Both of my sons -- Ford (5) and Owen (3) -- must have extraordinarily large heads. I say this because there isn't a single shirt that I can get on them without stretching out the neck first.
Every morning it's the same thing: first I argue with the boys about which shirts they can wear ("No, you can't wear your Batman top again today." And, "You've chewed the sleeve off that sweater so we'll have to throw it away."), then I take the approved of shirt, place it in my two hands and pull like all get out to make the neck hole big enough for their head.
And still I have to tug and pull on the hem, until the boys' ears are pinned against their necks and their cheeks are flattened beneath the shirt's collar. Sometimes the boys can't take it any more and they run away before the neck hole has safely cleared the bridge of their nose (in my experience, the hardest part to cross). They dance around the bedroom, often hopping from foot to foot and looking like a headless monster, as they yell, "It's too tight! It's too tight!"
Don't bother suggesting that I buy different size shirts for Ford and Owen. It doesn't matter how big the rest of the shirt may be, the neck will always be too small. I'm beginning to think these tiny collars are a ploy of the clothing industry to make kids grow out of their shirts even faster than they already do, thereby requiring parents to spend more money more frequently on bigger clothing.
Because really, when was the last time you as an adult had trouble pulling a shirt over your head? This seems to be an affliction unique to children under the age of ten.
And while we're speaking of heads, it seems that toddlers also have a habit of "bumping heads" on a regular, sometimes daily, basis. Ford and Owen can be playing 10 feet away from each other, and still they will manage to bump their heads together. Even if children are in a room alone, they will go out and seek another head to bump. A few weeks ago I was mopping the laundry floor when all of the sudden I looked up and bumped heads with Ford. I didn't even know he was in the same room. In fact, we weren't in the same room. Yet somehow Ford sensed I would be looking up at that exact moment, and so he came over to bump my head.
I ask you: when was the last time that you as an adult bumped heads with another person who wasn't 3-feet tall?
My husband, Dustin, once knew a guy in flight school with a head so large, the Navy didn't have a helmet to fit him.
Still, I bet he didn't have trouble putting on his shirts.
There are just some things that are unique to children, things that somewhere along the line we adults grow out of.
Take puddles, for instance. My sons' feet are like magnets for water. They will go out of their way to step in a giant puddle of mud. And also gum. If there is gum on the street, they will step in it. They jump off the porch and don't break their ankle. They slide on the hardwood floors and don't get hurt. They get the hiccups every time they eat, and -- this is what gets me the most, by the way -- their hair always looks cute. Even with bed-head.
The other day, I watched as Ford and Owen played on the driveway.
When was the last time I thought of our driveway as a three-ring circus?
I watched as Ford and Owen collected sticks.
When was the last time sticks were something else besides "yard debris"?
I watched as they ran through the sprinkler and laughed at being wet.
When was the last time my clothes got soaked and I didn't worry about washing them?
Later that same day Ford and Owen asked for sidewalk chalk to draw on the driveway. With the sun on our backs and the ants crawling across our bare feet, I sat on the concrete next to my boys and traced the outline of my hand with a big piece of pink chalk.
And I couldn't remember the last time I had done that.
Dustin Smiley Forgets to Shave His Legs
Did you know that as recent as the 1970's, it's believed that a service member's spouse's participation (read: "reputation") was a factor in considering promotions?
Here's the real shocker: according to some people, this practice continues today, albeit in a more discreet, elusive sort of way. Not buying it? I'm not sure I am either. I mean, Dustin's made it this far, hasn't he?
Even so, here's what a retired Navy reader recently sent me via email after one of my finger-pointing columns about military medicine:
A word to the wise: in my day not all the inputs considered by promotion boards were written down… you may want to wash soiled linen within the service in order to preclude a future whine about the promotion process.
I receive this sentiment a lot, actually. One of the most frequently asked questions about my column is, "Your husband lets you write that?"
Coincidentally, there is a heated debate ongoing at Military.com's message board titled "Reflection of our spouses?" where back and forth, military spouses are arguing over whether or not our actions -- our lives -- can affect our spouse's career.
So, to put an end to the bickering, I've decided to pose a little scientific study. Let's say I ask this question, "If I, Sarah Smiley, am merely a reflection on my spouse and not a separate human being, who, by the way, happens to be a civilian…," (remember this is very scientific), then it is safe to assume the following:
Dustin Smiley forgets to shave his legs every other day.
Dustin Smiley dyed his hair blonde, but thought it looked fake, so he's gone back to brown.
Dustin Smiley wishes he could remember that it takes two-thirds cup of water to make microwave macaroni and cheese, but, alas, he has to read the small print on the back of the box every single time.
Dustin Smiley gets a giant blister on his right toe when he wears his favorite red high heels.
Dustin Smiley always gets the loud shopping cart with the lopsided wheels.
Dustin Smiley still hasn't figured out how to do the "self check out" at Wal-Mart.
Dustin Smiley is trying to lose weight, but a love for chocolate frosting is proving that to be difficult.
Dustin Smiley rarely showers before he takes the kids to school in the morning.
Dustin Smiley is afraid of mice.
Dustin Smiley nearly threw out his shoulder trying on one of those fancy girdles with the nice new name, "Spanx."
Dustin Smiley's greatest fear is being trapped in a public bathroom stall, because he'd rather sit there and starve than crawl on the floor underneath to get out.
Dustin Smiley's favorite spectator sport is bull riding, although this has less to do with the "sport," and more to do with the riders.
Dustin Smiley is trying to cut back to only two Diet Dr. Peppers a day, which is only causing him to eat more chocolate frosting.
When Dustin Smiley is nervous, he grinds his teeth so hard, his nose gets numb.
Dustin Smiley feels cranky in the morning if his pants are too tight, his underwear too large, or if his hair looks like someone hit him over the head with a frying pan.
Dustin Smiley mistakenly believes he has a good voice when he sings "Gilligan's Island" in the shower.
Nothing says home to Dustin Smiley like a nice pair of leopard print slippers and flannel pajamas.
Dustin Smiley once tried to count to a million and threw up.
And last, Dustin Smiley married a fantastic spouse!
So, judging by our little experiment, I think it's safe to say just one thing -- Dustin Smiley's wife has issues.
As for all this reflecting-on-our-spouses stuff, well, I just hope the reverse isn't true (that our husbands reflect upon us), because that would mean I'm terrible with directions and that I have a five o'clock shadow by Noon.
Some Things You Should Know About Military Men
Q: When my husband says we will be leaving for our summer vacation at "zero-six-hundred hours," what does that mean exactly?
A: It means you will pile into the minivan at an ungodly hour, and that your husband needs to chill.
This scenario is so typical of military men, who in their professional lives operate within the confines of rigid procedures and schedules. When they get home, they like to think their families also tense at the sound of a whistle and meet the day with gusto. Yet it is one of life's cruel ironies that military men often (not always, but often) coexist with their opposite: a woman who doesn't wear a watch and likes to sleep in; children who take an hour to get on their shoes, use the bathroom one last time, find a toy to take along, use the bathroom again, find the toy they set down, get one last sip of juice, use the bathroom one more time and get out the door.
Ah, but military men are also great planners and strategists, so my guess is that your husband really wants to leave at 7:00 a.m. (aka: "zero-seven-hundred"), but he knows this is unrealistic. He has told you 6:00 a.m. in the hopes that the family will actually be in the car one hour later. All of which means you won't get the “you-guys-are-so-undisciplined” stare until about 7:05, so take your time.
Q: Why can my husband fly million-dollar aircraft but for the past nine months, he hasn't figured out how to fix the broken sprinkler in our front yard?
A: First, I'm impressed that you realize your husband's procrastination with the sprinkler has more to do with his inability to fix it than any restraints on his time. A less experienced military wife might be fooled into believing that her husband has been "too busy" to think about the sprinkler. But we know (because we are the ones who do all the home repairs most of the time anyway) that a broken sprinkler requires very little time or skill.
However, as you mentioned, your husband is a highly trained military officer. (Which is to say, if the military didn't teach it, he probably doesn't know it.) You are witnessing a very common phenomenon: Smart people don't have room left in their brains for mundane tasks such as remembering to turn off the stove, storing new contacts into their cell phone, and reprogramming TiVo. Basically, your husband has used up all his smarts on the military. So get out there, fix that sprinkler, and be done with it!
Q: When I met my soldier husband, I fell in love with the idea that he would be my protector. Then he deployed and I had to toughen up. I hate to say it, but sometimes he seems a little wimpy to me now. Is this normal?
A: Military marriages are delicate balancing acts. When your husband is deployed, you are on your own and rise to the occasion. Then he comes back and naturally wants your relationship to return to its previous state (that, of course, being with you as the "wife" and him as the "soldier husband" while "Up Where We Belong" playing softly, yet continuously, in the background). As you gain independence, it is a bit disconcerting to view your husband in a different light. Trust me when I say you will not only get used to it, eventually you will enjoy telling everyone that your husband moaned like a baby when he had Pink Eye after you've delivered three of his children. Not that I know a couple that this has happened to, but you get the idea.
Q: Who are Romeo, Charlie and Sierra, and why does my husband keep talking about them?
A: Being the efficient system it is, the military uses the phonetic alphabet to eliminate any confusion (between Bs, Ds, Ts and Vs, and so forth) when calling out letters. For instance, my initials are SRS. To my military husband this is "Sierra Romeo Sierra." You can learn the phonetic alphabet if you wish, but I prefer instead to irritate my husband by coming up with my own. Instead of spelling out my husband's name Delta-Uniform-Sierra-Tango-India-November (the correct way), I might use Donkey-Umbrella-Salad-Tutu-Igloo-Norway. This is only slightly less efficient but much more Fabio-Underpants-Naked.
Lessons From the Dugout: No Place for Mom
You stood at the tee, staring out to the field, which seemed to reduce you to a small speck against a canvas of green grass and red, dusty baseball dirt. Part boy and part baby, your knobby knees touched in the middle, but your rounded tummy poked through the t-shirt hanging so low, it covered your shorts. You raised the bat to your shoulder. The large, red batter's helmet wobbled on your head. From the splintered stands, behind home plate, I clutched my hands together.
The coaches initially suggested we put you back in a younger league, with the 4- to 5-year-olds. "He's small for his age," they had said. "He might get hurt." But I knew what they meant: Your son can't catch a ball. He doesn't run fast. And sometimes he misses when he swings. Dad spent hours in the front yard working with you. Then he convinced the coaches to let you play with the other 6-year-olds. "Sending him back," Dad said, "will break his spirit."
Thinking back on it now, as I sat behind you, separated by a metal fence at your very first game, I wondered if Dad and I had made a mistake. The other kids will laugh at him, I thought. He'll get the first "out." Someone behind me said, "That boy is so small." A lump rose in my throat.
You took a practice swing. The other players and the spectators quieted to a few scattered whispers. All eyes were on you, my child. You drew the bat to your shoulder again, ready for the real thing. Please just let him get on first, I thought. It will mean the world to him. You swung the bat. The motion was awkward and the bat was too high. You missed the ball. I lowered my head to hide the sudden rush of tears in my eyes. Someone from the other team laughed.
The coach patted you on the back and whispered in your ear. Then he stood back and you pulled up the bat again. With a timid shift of your hips, you tried to put all your 40 pounds behind the next swing. The ball flew from the tee and landed right at the pitcher's feet. "He'll never make it to First," someone said.
Now, I'm not a screamer. I'm hardly competitive, and I don't care for sports. But right then, as your feet left home plate, I stood in my seat and yelled as loud as I could, "Run, Ford! Don't look back, just run!"
But the ball beat you to the base. You were out, and the inning was over. You ran with the other kids to the dugout. I rushed to meet you, but you disappeared behind the cinderblock wall. Will the kids tease him? I wondered. Will he cry? Dad told me to let it go. It's all part of the game, part of being a boy, he said. After many roasts at military parties, Dad knows that being part of a team means learning to roll with the punches, and that sometimes, oddly, males bond over ridicule and gentle teasing.
Do not go in the dugout, he told me.
For 10 painful minutes, you were invisible to me. I would never know what went on in the dugout. It wasn't my place. You had to learn this lesson on your own. Sometimes, I guess, being a mother means allowing you to have experiences that will break my heart while they build your character.
You were at bat again for the last inning. We were separated by more than a metal fence now. In the dugout you had grown in ways I will never understand.
You planted your feet firmly in the dirt and pulled up the bat. The coach gave you an encouraging smile. You swung, but I couldn't bear to watch. Someone yelled, "Run, Ford," so I opened my eyes and saw you running to First. You made it. The crowd laughed as you did a victory dance. Two batters later, you were safe again on Third. You looked to see if I was watching. Someday, I thought, you'll look for another girl in the stands. But for now it is me. The next batter hit the ball and you ran home. Then you circled back to the dugout, leaving me there, behind the fence, at home base, where I will always be cheering for you.
Two Types of Shoppers: Men and Women
We just moved into a new house, which, oddly enough, means that I spend an inordinate amount of time at Home Depot, the home improvement store.
One would think that a new house doesn't need "improvements," yet I can't function in my normal life these days because I'm obsessed with improving our home, which was just built.
Admittedly, most of my need to quickly (as in RIGHT NOW!) set up house is rooted in my military upbringing. With only two to three years to live in a home, I feel pressured to get settled fast so we can maximize our enjoyment before the next move. And for reasons unknown to me, getting settled -- into a newly constructed house, remember -- requires daily trips to Home Depot, the home improvement store.
But I can't pretend I don't like my trips to Home Depot, because they've afforded me many lessons in the differences between men and women, which, since you asked, I will dispense now.
First, men walk into Home Depot with a purpose. They have serious, thoughtful looks on their faces as they wander aimlessly down aisles pretending to know where they are going or what they're looking for. Sometimes men shopping at Home Depot even frown, but I think this is just to make us women believe that shopping for tools is hard on a guy and that they don't get any enjoyment out of it at all.
I, on the other hand, walk into Home Depot as I do every other store -- with a bewildered look on my face and a well-intended shopping list crumpled in my left hand. It doesn't matter if I'm shopping for earrings at Target or for a caulk gun at Home Depot, when I hear the clickety-clack of shopping cartwheels, my heart races and I am momentarily unaware of other things … such as my bank account balance. This trance-like shopping state allows me to actually speak to and smile at other shoppers, which, if you'll notice, men at Home Depot never do. My friend Sonja and I met in one aisle and had a wonderful conversation about the difference between semi-gloss and satin paint finishes, while the men standing near us frowned at shiny green lawn mowers and tried to look really "busy."
Another difference between men and women at Home Depot is that men, for all the pained, serious looks on their faces, will always make shopping for hardware more difficult than it needs to be. While searching for a 5/16-inch cross dowel nut (whatever that is), Dustin would have rather let our dog chew a hole through the deck than ask an employee in an orange apron for help.
"It doesn't have to be this difficult," I said to Dustin. "Just ask someone for help."
But no, that would take the fun out of it.
Meanwhile, a man and his wife standing next to us were having nearly the same conversation. They were shopping for a tool bench and although the man was confused about which features came with which benches, he wouldn't take his wife's advice to ask for help. He was getting a lot more accomplished frowning at the display and rubbing his chin.
The man's wife looked on as he rapped the top of a wooden bench with his knuckles, because obviously at some point in his life he had learned that testing the sturdiness of a piece of wood involves only knocking on it like a front door. I also watched with curiosity because I have never in my experience known a 4-inch piece of solid wood to crumble beneath anyone's knuckles, and I doubted seriously that it was an effective way to evaluate a work bench.
After a while of this, and without Dustin noticing (which wasn't hard), I slipped away from aisle number 10 to find help. When I returned with a man in an orange apron, Dustin's face looked panicked. Now he'd actually have to talk to a human being … in Home Depot!
So I was the one who asked the employee about cross dowel nuts, and when he said, "We don't have one that big because we're not a real hardware store, just a home improvement store," I thought Dustin's little heart would break.
But really, it makes sense, you know? I mean, why would a city filled with new homes need anything more than a store for home improvements?
Red Cape and Blue Tights Is Boy’s Rite-of-Passage
My knowledge of Matchbox cars is a direct result of my husband’s last deployment with the United States Navy. Left alone with two boys for six months, I had no choice but to learn all there is to know about the miniature vehicles. (I want to claim Hazardous Duty Pay for all the times I’ve stepped on – or worse, kneeled on – my sons’ cars.)
Just when I’d finally learned how to put all the cars back into their storage case, however, my son is now on to something else…Superman.
“But, Ford,” I said, “Mom just figured out how to put this complicated race track together; don’t you want to play with your Matchbox cars anymore?”
I only have myself to blame for this shift in toy fascination; I’m the one who bought the Superman video that is now Ford’s object of affection. Selfishly, I thought the superhero flick might relieve me of hearing the “Blue’s Clues” theme song one more time. I didn’t realize it would thrust us into a whole new boyhood rite-of-passage.
Suddenly the living room is littered with Superman books and figurines, and the hundreds of Matchbox cars we’ve collected over the last year are only used as “big, heavy objects” for the Man of Steel to lift.
I resisted this transition at first. Silly me, I thought “Blue’s Clues” was getting annoying – I didn’t realize abandoning it would mean the end of my son’s babyhood and the beginnings of a “little boy” who likes super heroes, plays pretend-wrestle, and (wincing) thinks anyone with a red cape on their back can fly.
Superman has been living at our house for quite some time now, though, so last week I figured I should join the frenzy and learn what makes this man in blue tights so interesting. Despite having two older brothers, I managed to remain a girly-girl who loved Barbie and make-up, so I really have a lot to figure out about Superman.
One night at dinner I asked my son and husband some questions:
“So, Lois Lane doesn’t know Clark Kent is Superman, right?”
“No,” they told me, laughing at my ignorance.
“And Lois Lane thinks Clark Kent is really cute, right?”
“No, no, no. Lois thinks Clark is goofy. She likes Superman.”
“Ah,” I said. “Well, Ford, that’s pretty cool that Lois writes for a newspaper….just like Mommy!”
“I guess so,” he shrugged.
Apparently Mom isn’t as interesting as she used to be either (another casualty of the transition from baby to boy) – even if she does share some traits with Superman’s damsel in distress.
Ford then turned to his dad (with great excitement, I might add) and the two talked superhero-talk for the rest of our meal.
I tuned out, retreating to the places in my mind where Ford is still a baby and likes to watch “Baby Mozart.” If only I had appreciated the priceless situation of having the little boy “all to myself” when his daddy was away—when, without interference, I could teach Ford how to play the piano, take him to “Blue’s Clues Live,” and tell him that things like wrestling and play-fighting are too rough for indoors.
But my interest in the conversation between my son and husband was peaked again when I suddenly heard my name.
Dustin was explaining to Ford the history between Lois and Clark/Superman.
“You see,” he told Ford, “Lois thinks Clark is a nerd and really boring, but she loves Superman because he is strong and fast and smart…..and good looking. Lois doesn’t realize Superman IS Clark Kent. It’s the same way your mom thinks I’m just ‘Dustin,’ but when she’s not looking, I turn into the sexiest man alive.”
OK, so maybe I CAN get into this Superman thing. Apparently there are some great lessons to be learned from the superhero in blue tights: No man is what he seems, women love a man’s potential, and all men think they can be Superman (because the women in their lives – beginning with their mother – let them believe it).
Advice to New Wives on Decoding Military Jargon
Sea bag. Spouse Club. Duty. DITY. Det.
If this looks like Greek to you, you’re not alone. Deciphering the strange and confusing jargon of the military takes time and patience.
To make life easier, here’s a brief crash-course lesson in military terminology.
Let’s start with “sea bag.” Ask your spouse and he will probably tell you this is a standard-issued bag used by military personnel to transport clothes and uniforms.
And he is correct. Well, almost.
For the sake of clarity, I like to describe the sea bag as a deployment time capsule a husband brings home and dumps on the living room floor. Open the bag and you will find undershirts that are smelly, wrinkled and gray (even though you could swear they were fresh and white when he packed them six months ago), and an assortment of gifts—knick-knacks and tacky clothing in all the wrong sizes—lovingly handpicked for you in a foreign port.
(I’ve heard legends about women opening the sea bag and finding lavish jewelry, but so far this is just a myth to me.)
Now let’s tackle DITY. DITY is an acronym for a “do-it-yourself” move, which technically means you pack and move your belongings by yourself, without the aid of a moving company.
You will recognize the DITY move when your husband asks, “Honey, can you spend the next two weeks sorting through all our belongings and begging the grocery store for boxes while I cleverly and conveniently disappear to finish up my important check-out procedure on base?”
Which brings us to the word “duty.” The word seems straightforward and simple enough: a position of watch filled at regulated intervals by military personnel. And this is what your spouse will want you to believe. After all, he believes it!
Soon you will learn, however, that duty is actually an unavoidable work commitment that somehow pops up unexpectedly on weekends, anniversaries, holidays, and your son’s first day of school. How these scheduled duty shifts always sneak up and surprise my husband, I do not know.
The title CO is an especially important acronym to learn. This stands for commanding officer, and he/she is your husband’s boss—the head honcho. In front of the CO it is advisable not to call your spouse “pooky” or “bear,” or to mention that he threw-up on his first T-34 flight.
Another common abbreviation used in the military is det (a.k.a.: detachment). This, your husband will tell you, is a scheduled, brief period of time in which his unit or squadron leaves the home base for training.
Don’t be fooled.
Look for the meaning of det under its more common name: “impossible unpredictability.” When your husband claims to have a det in one week that will last “only 5 days,” be prepared that he will probably actually leave tomorrow and be gone for two weeks. Never trust the det schedule, and be leery of anyone who claims to know the det schedule.
And finally, there is the spouse club. Your husband might refer to this group as the official military “rumor mill.” The spouse club, however, is an essential refuge from loneliness when your husband is deployed, and then a reasonable excuse to escape from too much together-time when he gets back.
The spouse club also is an excellent source of information (such as why the squadron really calls your husband “Dancing Bear”), and a means to clarify facts (like the truth behind that questionable picture of your husband in Greece).
(WARNING: Anything you reveal at a spouse club meeting may be used against you. Use discretion.)
Husbands and wives have been arguing for years over the meaning of most of these words. For the most part, his definition and your perception will eventually vary greatly.
There is one exception, however, and that is the term “orders.” Husbands and wives unanimously agree about the cut-and-dried nature of this word. Orders, unfortunately, means exactly what you think it means: Your spouse is being ordered to do something. It will often be used in sentences like: “Yes, honey, I thought we’d be moving to Virginia too, but now I’m being ordered to Japan,” and “My orders have changed; we’re moving next week.”
There’s just no getting around orders, no matter how you define the word.
Good luck, stay flexible, and don’t believe everything you hear. Especially about the det schedule.
We Can Support the Troops and Still Question the Politics
Do you support the war in Iraq? Everyone wants to know, especially of late, now that Scott Peterson is in prison and hurricane season is over. It’s at times like this when the media searches for the next hot topic, something to stir the pot and rivet the country’s attention. And what could be more controversial than war, right?
Try, a military spouse and columnist (me) with no clear opinion about the war.
“But your husband might be sent back to Iraq,” people say, as if I’ve committed heresy because my husband is in a position of sacrifice and I don’t fervently support the idea of leaving Iraq.
Some people won’t be satisfied until military families around the country pick up posterboard signs and march in front of the White House. “But your husband could die!” they say. “He could be deployed for months at a time!” And here’s precisely where the line is drawn between those who support the troops and those who live with them: as a military spouse, I know an end to the war in Iraq won’t mean an end to my family’s sacrifice. My husband still will deploy “for months at a time.” And he could die serving his country any day, war or no war, the only difference being that if his airplane when down in Pensacola instead of Iraq, his sacrifice probably wouldn’t make the 5 o’clock news.
Serving the country is what my husband signed up for. It’s what he’s committed to. And even when the politics surrounding the war have cooled, my husband still will be serving his country–perhaps in a different war or a different setting, but with the same sacrifices.
So “Do you support the war?” isn’t necessarily a black-and-white question for me. It’s murky and mixed-up with the ideas of duty and sacrifice. A better line of questioning would be, “Do you support the troops?” (Yes) and “Do you support the politics of the war?” (Not necessarily).
People are sometimes surprised to know how easily military families can separate “support” and “politics” when it comes to war. But it is out of necessity that we learn to do so. When my husband is leaving for a six-month deployment, no one stands at the door with a ballot box asking me whether or not I agree with what the President has asked my husband to do. I don’t get to sign a permission slip. Ultimately, my opinion (and even my husband’s) is of little consequence when he is leaving for duty. (And isn’t that the definition of military duty after all, to go without question?)
Furthermore, even if I were to arrive at some political epiphany for or against the war, it wouldn’t change my family’s reality. What good would it do me to expend energy protesting the war when I need all the energy I can muster to raise my kids and take care of myself while my husband is deployed? How much harder would it be to support my husband and his commitment if I was constantly railing against it?
My ballot box, if you will, was at the end of the alter the day I married a military service member. When I became Mrs. Smiley I theoretically “signed the permission slip” allowing my husband to leave at the President’s command, despite all else, even if I’m about to have a baby, I’m sick with the flu, or I don’t agree with the mission. And in that moment, when I became a military spouse, I simultaneously developed a compartmentalized mind which allows me to support the troops regardless of the politics.
Because, really, it is thanks to people like my husband and so many other service members around the world that the rest of us don’t have to enlist or deploy if we don’t want to. We are free to stay behind and question the how’s and why’s of it all. Our military and their families maintain faith that the government is using them for good. It’s up to the rest of you to debate and question that.
So next time you are tempted to ask a military spouse if they support the war, stop yourself and instead tell that person thank you.
A Lesson in Taming the Military In-Laws
Leading up to a ship’s homecoming, military spouse clubs are abuzz with the following reunion topics: (1) what to wear, (2) what not to wear, and (3) how to keep the in-laws at bay.
I forgot about this ritual until recently, when I spoke to a group of new military wives, whose husbands are about to embark on their first deployment. Going into the meeting, I thought I was prepared for what the wives would want to know. I was ready to tell them about staying busy and using a support network. But after I finished what I thought was an important spiel, the hands went up, eager with questions, and the women wanted to know (1) what to wear, (2) what not to wear, (3) and how to keep the in-laws away.
What to wear is a matter of personal preference and I never wish to open that can of what I’ll call "angry fan mail.” But I am willing to take a risk with the last question, because after I was done speaking that night, one of the women said, “Could you write a column about the in-law thing so we can forward is to our families as a little hint-hint”
What an interesting concept, I thought. And how clever! There are instruction books for military spouses and service members, but who’s telling the in-laws how to behave?
So here now are a few guidelines to tame your in-laws and keep the peace at home. Feel free to forward this to troublemakers if you’d like, but only at your own risk. Emotions run high pre-Homecoming, but remember: when it’s all said and done, these are still your in-laws, and people who will be present at a majority of your family’s holidays and birthdays.
In-Laws Should Not be at the Homecoming There, I’ve said it. And I know you’re itching to say it, too. When it comes to Homecoming, you and your spouse alone deserve the romance and excitement surrounding it. If your family has trouble understanding, gently say, “Mom, remember how you didn’t want to go on our honeymoon with us? And remember how I didn’t take you to the Senior Prom?” If necessary, refer to Homecoming as “Our Second Honeymoon.”
Be Sensitive Reporting Contact There’s nothing worse than this: you’ve been waiting for your husband to call from a foreign port. You sit by the phone anxious and excited. And when it finally rings, it is your mother-in-law, who says, “Guess who just called me? It was so great to hear his voice!” Communicating from the ship is difficult. It’s common for emails to arrive out of sync and for phone lines to drop mid-call. To avoid hurt feelings, in-laws should be sensitive boasting to the wife about their own phone calls and/or emails.
Don't Embarrass Your Child Some mothers treat grown-up sons like little boys. To each his own, but here’s a Word of Caution: Your son will be humiliated by his peers if you send him a care package with underwear, teddy bears (and any other stuffed animal, for that matter), or framed childhood pictures of him taking a bath. No, it doesn’t matter that "the wife" sent him a talking Winnie the Pooh. What’s considered acceptable for her does not apply to anyone else.
Stay Visible I hear stories about in-laws suddenly becoming incognito during a deployment. I guess the theory is, “My son’s not at home, so why should I call his house?” Some daughters-in-law feel nearly invisible to their spouse’s parents while he is away. But here’s a little secret: The wife gets all the info from the squadron/unit. Tell your in-laws this, and I guarantee the phones will ring. Of course, if you'd rather they didn't call, then that's another column.
In closing, my guess is these guidelines for a harmonious in-law relationship will ruffle some feathers…and I'm going to hear about it. But let me save you some trouble and give you the name of a person to contact if you'd like to send "angry fan mail." Her name is, Dustin's Mom. That's right, my mother-in-law. Because here's the funny thing, as a former military wife herself, she agrees with me!