Sometimes.....

Sometimes being a military spouse, straight up BITES!*

And, yes, I had an idea of what I was getting into when he signed away our lives. We had been married for two years when Sweet Husband felt called to join the military.
Sweet husband signed on the line, and two weeks later we said goodbye for the first time. He went through eights weeks of basic training, followed by twenty-four weeks of specialized training, before we were able to live together again.
Over the years, we've spent almost as much time living apart as we have living together. One might think that saying "goodbye" that often has left me hardened, that Sweet Husband's comings and goings are nothing more than turn-of-the-mill events.

One would be wrong.

Sweet Husband is adored. Everyday, when he walks through the front door, he's greeted by squeals and cheers. Occasionally the paparazzi is also on the scene to document such goings on. Everyday that Sweet Husband gets to come home. Our household rejoices. So when he gets orders to leave for weeks at a time. It is devastating.

Sometimes dealing with the craziness and politics of a unit leaves you feeling emotionally bruised and battered.

Combine the two together, and it's no wonder military installations have liquor stores.






*Yes, it bites. It does not suck. Think about it. Biting is ALWAYS bad. Sucking is not.

Pajamas and Hips

When Sweet Husband and I were first married, I introduced him to the cottony bliss of men's flannel pajama bottoms. Over the years, my stash of men's flannel pajama bottoms has dispelled and his stash has sprung up. Much to his chagrin, occasionally, I'll borrow a pair of his pajama bottoms when my sleep shorts are MIA.

The two of us were up late on night folding laundry and discussing an upcoming deployment.
"While I'm gone" he started, "...If you want to, you can wear my-"
My heart started speeding up and my insides were starting to feel warm fuzzy.
"My PT shirts." he finished.
Warm fuzzies fled. PT shirts have a course gritty feel to them, definitely in contrast to the soft cottony cloud of flannel pajama pants.
"Your PT shirts?" I repeated woodenly. "Really? I thought you were going to say 'pajama bottoms'. You almost made me melt."
"Well, I'd let you wear my pajamas, but I'm afraid you would stretch them out."
I blinked in surprise. Warm fuzzies sought refuge in Bulgaria.
Genuinely confused, I asked the question that begged asking "How would I stretch them out?"
"Well the red one's are a little tight on me, And well, it's just that your hips are so much wider than mine."
I stared at the love of my life in dumbfounded amazement.
"My hips are not wider than yours." I told him in righteous indignation.
He looked at me skeptically "Are you sure?"

.....

Would you believe it, even after we established my hips are smaller than his, he still didn't offer me the use of his pajama bottoms. *sad face*