I'm Just Saying...

Dustin sees Homecoming from new perspective

2011-05-03T09:17:00.000-07:00

There are two sides to everything, and each side has its own mix of emotions, reasoning, feeling and perception. Last night, Dustin saw a military homecoming from the perspective of a wife.

To the average bystander, the experiences (that of a wife who has been at home, and that of a husband who has been deployed, reuniting after months apart) should be nearly the same. But the quizzical smile on Dustin's face, in the background of one of the pictures from that night, proves that after being a military service member for the past 15, he was seeing a homecoming for the first time.

First, he witnessed the many anxious phone calls from my friend (the wife) when she was unsure if her husband was coming home "this day" or "that day."

Will it be today? she wondered. Will it be morning or night? Should I put the kids to bed? Keep them awake? What if his homecoming is postponed until tomorrow? How will I ever sleep tonight?

Dustin heard about my friend's trips to the hairdresser, her appointments to get a manicure, pedicure, facial and bronzing. Indeed, about four months prior, he saw her exciting post on Facebook: I bought my homecoming dress today!

"Already?" Dustin asked. (This from the man who only chooses what to wear based on what's reasonably clean.)

My friend talked about her stomach being in knots. She mentioned feeling restless, unable to sleep, and so incredibly anxious about the upcoming homecoming that she was "going out of my mind."

I imagine Dustin went through many of the same things (minus the pedicure, manicure, facial and bronzing) before his homecomings. But a key difference is that the returning service member is busy traveling. He has processing and debriefs to do. He has clothes to pack and work to complete. He is like a person closing up shop before heading home for dinner. He is, in a word, busy. But more importantly, every minute, he is making his way home.

The wife is perhaps equally busy (I called my friend about an hour before the homecoming; she was bathing the kids, getting dressed, and trying to make dinner) but she is going nowhere. She is waiting in a holding pattern. Thus the anxiety and restlessness.

There is an enormous build up of excitement, and it lasts for as long as the service member is en route but not yet home. Or worse, from the time he is en route but without an official homecoming date and time. It could be tomorrow; it could be a week. How does one carry on with something as mundane as laundry under such circumstances?

When we got to the airport that night--the night my friend had been waiting for since the moment her husband landed in Norfolk for "processing"--Dustin held back with obvious distance between himself and the waiting family. It was as if he didn't know his place.

I knew mine. I am a military wife. I have been in my friend's shoes. I knew she wanted me to take pictures, wave flags and basically meet her level of excitement (mission impossible, really).

Dustin was stuck in limbo. I was reminded of what one my female-service-member friends once said: I don't belong in the kitchen with the women, but I don't really belong in the den with the guys either.

My friend's cell phone rang. The plane had landed. He would be coming through the door any minute. My friend began to tear up. He kids were jumping up and down and chanting "Daddy, Daddy!" There was a moment when I thought my friend might pass out because it looked like she wasn't breathing. Her eyes were fixed on the door.

And then he walked through. She jumped in her heels, wrung her hands and smiled with tears in her eyes.

This was the part that Dustin knows. He has been there for this part. The father gathered up his children and hugged them. Then he reached for his wife and pulled her into the huddle. They kissed while children hung from their dad's shoulders.

No one in the "audience" said a word.

When I got home and uploaded the pictures, I came across one of my friend just moments before her husband came through the door. She is clutching her hands together in front of her, and she is smiling so big that veins are visible in her neck. Her skin is glowing.

Dustin is in the background. On his face is the most genuine, excited smile I have ever seen from him in a photograph. It was as if he was watching a homecoming for the first time. And in many ways, he truly was.

Get Healthy with Sarah

2010-03-07T10:27:00.000-08:00

Beginning March 3, 2010, the Bangor Daily News will follow my progress every Wednesday (Lifestyle section) as I work toward a goal of losing 30 pounds by August 17. You can read the first installment of this series here.

Eggo Waffles for Breakfast? Maybe Not.

2009-11-19T20:05:00.000-08:00

Mornings -- especially school mornings -- are a particularly chaotic time when you have three young children. Much of the chaos centers around breakfast. And by "breakfast," I mean "frozen waffles," because in our house, there is no distinction. By the time my children are grown, I will have prepared an absurd amount of frozen waffles. If only my boys could gain an appetite for a different kind of breakfast, one that doesn't involve standing at the toaster oven for three minutes, three times in a row, and then buttering six waffles and making three bowls of syrup for dipping.

Six years ago, I thought the emerging waffles-for-breakfast routine was just a phase. I figured it would disappear and then come again like the boys' cyclical taste for tacos or peanut butter sandwiches. I was wrong. At this point, if you take into account the rare instances in which we have temporarily run out of frozen waffles (an emergency situation to be discussed below), I figure that I have prepared approximately 10,220 waffles.

What is cyclical, however, is the boys' preference for waffle type and preparation, so we have developed our own code words to differentiate. "Regular waffles" are the standard variety. Owen likes these with butter only and syrup on the side for dipping. Ford likes them buttered but prefers to add his own syrup, which is always too much. Owen likes his cut into two; Ford not at all.

"Square waffles" are the miniature waffles that are technically cinnamon toast. They can be broken apart into 4 separate squares and that's the way Ford likes them. But if you dare break apart Owen's serving, he will flop onto the ground like a seal who has underestimated the jump onto a rock.

"Waffle sticks" are actually french toast that can be broken into 4 sticks. Both Ford and Owen like them served whole so that they can break them and dip them in a bowl of syrup.

You probably noticed that I didn't mentioned Lindell, our youngest, and his preferences. That's because Lindell will eat anything, in any presentation, and therefore he usually receives all the cut up, mashed up, broken apart waffles that were unsuitable to his brothers.

Now, if the wrong waffle presentation is enough to make Owen flop on the ground, you can imagine the calamity of not having any waffles at all. Ford and Lindell, who are usually pretty understanding about waffle mistakes, can be reduced to fits of rage on the mornings that we discover we have run out of frozen waffles. Because Owen has previously been so dramatic about ill-prepared waffles, he has but one last resort in these crises: not eat at all. In fact, he will hardly speak if he can not have waffles.

So you can see the predicament Dustin and I faced Wednesday morning when we opened the freezer and realized that there were only two servings of "waffle sticks" left. Three boys. Two servings. Lindell had already spotted the box and was dancing around the kitchen singing, "waffle sticks, waffle sticks, we eat waffle sticks," which effectively laid his claim to at least one of the servings. Ford and Owen were both upstairs, completely unaware of the waffle dilemma unfolding in the kitchen.

Dustin and I knew what we had to do, and we knew it wouldn't be easy. It would, in fact, be one of those difficult decisions all parents dread. We'd have to choose between our two children. One would get waffle sticks, the other would not.

We weighed our options. Owen probably could not handle the heartbreak of watching his brothers eat waffles while he had none. We feared that he would slide off his seat, onto the floor, and perhaps curl up into a ball and never eat again. Ford would be disappointed, sure, but he usually is able to grasp the larger picture. And he never chooses not to eat.

Dustin put the waffle sticks in the toaster oven and began making a different breakfast for Ford. Lindell was still singing, "waffle sticks, waffle sticks, we eat waffle sticks."

The older boys came downstairs to eat. Dustin decided to overcompensate for the impending tragedy by being super cheerful and accommodating. "Do you want some milk, Ford? How about orange juice, Owen?"

The children sat down at the table. No one noticed anything astray. Not even Ford, who was devouring his meal. Then Lindell started singing again. "Waffle sticks, waffle sticks, we eat waffle sticks." Ford looked at his brothers' plates and dropped his fork.

"Hey, that's not fair!" he said. "They have waffle sticks."

"And there aren't any more," Dustin said. "There were only two servings."

"So why didn't you ask me if I wanted waffle sticks instead of them?"

And Dustin said, "Because we were afraid that you would say yes."

Military Care Packages: Do's and Don'ts

2009-10-24T22:50:00.000-07:00

Sending a care package to your loved one deployed overseas seems so easy, doesn't it? You just box up some cookies, attach a sweet card, and it's ready to go, right?

If only it were that easy.

Sending mail to ships/units overseas is tricky for many reasons (slow processing, mail limitations, etc.) but one of the most confounding is this: unless you've been deployed yourself, it's hard to know exactly what a Soldier or Sailor might want.

After two deployments (and a picky husband), here's what I've learned about military care packages.

Try Not to Embarrass:

You might think sending a life-size portrait of your toy poodle dressed in a ballet skirt is hilarious, but chances are your husband won't be laughing when he has to carry the cumbersome "pooch" back to his room and past all his friends. You never know where your spouse will open his package, or whom he'll be with. If you think he'll be humiliated for anyone to know you sent him pink boxer shorts, either don't send them or give him a heads up about the contents of the box. Similarly, if you're sending something that might embarrass YOU (uhmmm....pictures), make sure you don't surprise your beloved, or he might unknowingly cast your photos to a group of nosey friends peering over his shoulder as he opens the box.

Don't Douse the Box/Envelope with Perfume:

Women think this is wonderful, to spray perfume all over a man's gift or letter. And honestly, our men probably like to receive the smelly treasures too. But when your husband has to carry that letter through three hallways and up four ladders back to his room, he may not be thrilled dragging a cloud of feminine perfume behind him. Remember, the military is notorious for issuing its members "call signs" or "nicknames" at their weakest, most embarrassing moment. If you don't want your husband to be called "Christian Dior" for the rest of his career, go easy on the scents.

Steer Clear of Chocolate:

When you send something via an FPO address, you never know where it will wait in transit before it gets to its destination. Your carefully prepared box of chocolates may wait onboard a ship in the Persian Gulf before being delivered to your military spouse -- if you don't want that package to be a big, melted, gooey mess, don't send chocolate (or anything else that can melt).

But if you simply MUST send food, go through a company--such as The Popcorn Factory--who has experience packaging and sending perishable items.

Keep it Small:

Keep in mind your loved one may not have much personal space in his overseas accommodations. Chances are good he has no place to store the giant smiley face pinata the kids made for him, and it will end up being a

burden rather than a pleasure. Things that can be stored easily (small drawings and pictures, travel game sets) and things that can be consumed (food, toiletry items) rate high on most Soldier's and Sailor's lists.

Keep it Personal:

Remember your military spouse/loved one has not been home for a really long time -- what might seem silly or boring to you (an audio tape of the children fighting over the Nintendo) will be like a little piece of home for your spouse. Send things to remind your Soldier/Sailor of the things he loves (his children, family, favorite foods, taped reruns of his favorite TV shows).

Make it Fun:

Deployed Soldiers and Sailors are working almost non-stop and with little new scenery or change of pace. They don't have the option to go to Barnes and Noble for awhile to "get out" and see something new. So bring the fun and the new to them. My husband always likes getting DVDs, CDs, books, and sports magazines. He's also pointed out that it is hard to get a "real" American newspaper when he is deployed, so the local paper from home is always appreciated (especially the Sports section). Remember these Soldiers and Sailors are living without many of the comforts and conveniences of home. Therefore, mail call is a welcomed opportunity to receive something new and different to look at....things they can't get on the ship.

Make it Frequent:

Mail Call can be the highlight of the day for any deployed man or woman. Even something as small as a crayon drawing from a two-year old can bring joy to your loved one! Make it a point to send something....even if it's just a letter....as frequently as you can!

Amazon.com Widgets

Military Romance.... Or an Arranged Marriage?

2009-10-23T08:27:00.000-07:00

Normally, I wouldn’t bore you with another how-we-met story, except mine speaks to the “small world” of the military. Plus, I feel obligated to forewarn unsuspecting families who jokingly “set up” their young children.

Before I tell you how I met my husband, however, let me tell you how he met my dad.

Twenty-seven years ago, a one-year-old Dustin flew overseas with his mom to meet the USS Franklin Roosevelt and see his dad (“PT”), who was deployed with VF-111, an F-14 squadron based out of NAS Miramar in San Diego, Ca.

Failing memories and nostalgia have blurred the subsequent details, but during that time, somewhere in France, Dustin’s dad introduced his wife and son to a new friend and fellow squadron mate, Lin “Yank” Rutherford.

“Yank” told the young Dustin, “When you get back to San Diego, you should go meet my new daughter, Sarah.”

Upon returning to the states, Dustin and his mom did just that. And they didn’t have to walk far. Our families lived only a few blocks away from each other.

Several months later, both Dustin and I watched VF-111 fly-in to Miramar, and it was there that I met my dad for the first time. I was seven months old. So, as fate would have it, I met my husband before I met my dad, and Dustin met his father-in-law before he met his wife.

By now you’re probably gushing with “awe’s” and wondering if we were sweethearts from the start, but don’t get excited yet. Our romance had a rocky start.

First, when I was three-years old, Dustin teasingly persuaded me to throw away my baby blanket. That night, afraid to go to sleep without the favored piece of flannel, I made my mom go over to the Smiley’s and dig i t out of the trash. Typically, love connections don’t flourish when someone’s mom is leaning over the garbage fetching a blankey for a crying toddler.

Next, Dustin and I attended elementary school together, and because he was the school safety patrol officer, wore fluorescent “jam” shorts, and had buckteeth, I would have rather banged my head against a brick wall than talk to Dustin Smiley. Family and squadron gatherings were spent with me trying desperately to avoid Dustin, and Dustin trying to recapture the magic of a moment shared over a trash can in San Diego.

When I was in fifth grade, Dustin moved away, and then I only heard of him through the yearly Christmas cards our parents exchanged. But in 1997, after Dustin graduated from the Naval Academy, and after 10 years apart, we met again. Dustin’s version of the story is that he called and asked me out. The truth is, his dad called and set us up. Either way, all I remember is saying, “Dustin who?” as I stared at a faded childhood picture in my baby-book.

“Just go and be nice,” my mom told me. “He’s a family friend, and it’s not like you have to marry him!”

I was not enthusiastic about my “blind” date, and put very little care into getting ready. I lazily applied make-up while chatting on the phone with a friend about how much I dreaded the date.

I was stunned, however, when I went downstairs and saw this gorgeous grown man standing in the kitchen talking to my mom. I didn’t even say hello. I ran back upstairs, put on more make-up and changed my clothes.

At dinner that night, Dustin and I realized we had more in common than a shared military history, and our bond was deeper than a faded photograph could reveal. Before the night was over, I knew eventually we’d be married.

Almost two years later, we got engaged with our families watching. After the ring was on my finger and the hugs and tears subsided, my dad was found wandering aimlessly through the room mumbling, “I can’t believe PT is going to be my in-law. I can’t believe PT is going to be my in-law.”

Moral of the story: Next time you jokingly tell your buddy, “hey, wouldn’t that be funny if our kids ended up together,” remember….it may not be a joke after all.

(Author's Note: Next time you're in the National Museum of Naval Aviation in Pensacola, Florida, check out the squadron plaque from the VF-111 Sundowners. The names of Dustin and Sarah's dads are listed right next to each other!)

PHOTO: Dustin and Sarah Smiley on pier at NAS North Island in San Diego, Ca, waiting for their dads to return home with the VF-111 Sundownders on the USS Franklin Roosevelt. 1979.

Making Peace with Old Man Winter

2009-10-22T19:31:00.001-07:00

When I first arrived in Bangor in August, it was hard to imagine this city as anything but sunny, pleasantly warm and full of lush greenery, shady trees and colorful flowers.

“Oh, but just you wait,” my neighbors said. “Winter will come.” They always said this with a playful smile, like I was about to sit on a whoopie cushion or something.

But never mind that, I thought. After spending a decade in Florida — where the ground is so parched you can imagine your front lawn actually catching fire from the sun, and blooms shrivel up and die horrible, crusty deaths — I was in awe at the mild climate of my new home.

By October, the shady green trees had turned vibrant variations of red, orange and yellow. Fallen leaves looked like little drops of sunlight on the concrete. The vision was so lovely, I nearly had a fender-bender driving my boys to school one morning because I couldn’t stop staring at the trees.

By November, the boys had finally accepted the fact that there are no fire ants or snakes in our backyard. They spent hours wrestling in the fallen leaves, enjoying this newfound thing called “autumn.”

“They won’t be playing outside much longer,” people said, with that same playful smile.

“Just wait until the trees are bare,” my friend Bill said. “There’s no turning back then.”

In December, the days grew shorter, the wind got colder, and I felt a creeping sense of doom. I watched neighbors put out stakes to outline the perimeter of their driveways and yards.

“Strange,” I thought. “Are they getting ready for a parade or something?” I noticed people covering their bushes with wooden tents. My friend Tony’s woodpile grew so tall, I could hardly see past it to his garage.

In my mind, Old Man Winter had become this ominous giant looming on the outskirts of the city, waiting to strike. I had no idea what to expect. And judging by my neighbors’ preparations, I knew that I wasn’t ready, either.

Yet, I noticed that friends and neighbors did not make their preparations with any visible resentment or anger. In fact, they seemed to have an adrenaline-fueled eagerness. It would be another round of Man vs. Winter. This healthy balance of respect mixed with fear is not unlike that of Floridians waiting for hurricane season.

Winter storms and hurricanes have been around longer than we have. We are merely trying to make a go at it in their territory. But Floridians can go years, even decades, without a major storm. Mainers go up against their rival every year, like clockwork, once the trees are bare. Just like Bill said.

Except, it isn’t entirely fair to call winter a “rival.” Because, again, I sense that Mainers have a respect for the climate, even if it is sometimes a love-hate relationship. When Dustin and I venture outside after a storm to clear the driveway and sidewalk, passers-by and neighbors usually greet us with that playful smile again. It’s as if we are all saying, “Well, winter might have won that round, but we’ll try again next time.” Their smile is not resigned. It’s competitive, but jovial.

You see this same kind of good-spiritedness at the hill off Union Street in Bangor that kids use for sledding. As people struggle to climb the slippery slope with their sleds and tubes in tow, you get the idea that winter is somewhere off in the distance chuckling. But we’re hanging in there, making the most of all the white stuff piled up like marshmallow Fluff. We may have leaks in our roofs, ice dams in our gutters and melted snow in the basement, but by golly, we’re still standing for another round with Old Man Winter! Like a boxer who is bloodied and bruised, we come to the hill on Union Street and try to conquer the elements again with our cheap plastic sleds. Meanwhile, Old Man Winter is back in his corner, getting toweled off and saving his energy for the next round.

Every day on my way home from doing errands, I pass Mount Pleasant Cemetery on Ohio Street. At the stop light there, I look over at what I can see of the graves and marvel at the thick blanket of snow on top of them. The people buried there spent their whole lives battling the snow. They shoveled it, raked it off the roofs, brushed it off their cars, cleaned it off their floors. In fact, many of them probably died with a snow shovel in hand. And now, there they lie, their last resting place clobbered with snow.

For a moment I feel sad. I am temporarily filled with the urge to go shovel the snow off all of the graves. Then I realize the Mainers lying there know Old Man Winter far better than I do. They have battled him many times, and now he has gently blanketed them with snow, like a football player patting a rival’s back after a game. The Mainers, I suspect, wouldn’t have it any other way.

Military Goodbyes are Painfully Ordinary

2009-10-22T19:29:00.000-07:00

A scene in the movie “The Way We Get By,” about the troop greeters at the Bangor International Airport, haunted me for days after I saw it. Like waking up with residual feelings from a strange dream the night before, I couldn’t shake a case of elusive, emotional deja vu. For a while there, it was like I was living in the previous decade, when Dustin was deploying at a rigorous pace out of Jacksonville, Fla.

The scene that threw me back to this point in my life was the one where Joan, one of three main “characters” in “The Way We Get By,” is saying goodbye to her granddaughter Amy before Amy leaves for a yearlong deployment in Iraq. Like my husband, Dustin, Amy is a helicopter pilot. Also like Dustin, Amy wears a flight suit. And just like so many of our own farewells, Amy’s goodbye scene takes place in a hangar. Her family surrounds her, and although there are tears and worried expressions, there is also a surprising amount of normalcy. It’s mundane, even. Just like Dustin’s departures always have been.

This might surprise people who have never said goodbye to their spouse for an extended period of time. What “The Way We Get By” captures so poignantly and translucently, however, is how relatively ordinary a farewell can be. In the movie, Amy makes small talk with her family while keeping a watchful eye on the rest of her fellow pilots to judge when it is time for the real thing: the real, final goodbye. At times, Amy and her well-wishers even seem bored. They watch the clock with the impatience of someone ready to “get it over with.” (I’ve always likened this to ripping off a Band-Aid: You know it’s going to hurt, but you just want to be done with it. Tearing it off slowly seems like a mild form of torture.)

Indeed, as is characteristic of other things in the military, there is plenty of “hurry up and wait” time at these farewells. The service member is required to arrive for muster at the departure site at a specified time (sometimes called “Show Time”). The Show Time, however, is not when the service member will actually leave for deployment. It could be an hour or more before the final goodbye. What happens between Show Time and departure is not unlike waiting for any other commercial airline flight that is delayed. You sit. You wait. You look at your watch. You say, “Well, let me give you another hug real quick because we’ll probably be leaving soon.” Then you wait some more. You feel like you should be hugging nonstop because you know goodbye is coming, but then there is more waiting. And you start to feel kind of bored. Yes, bored. You are ready to rip the Band-Aid off and get on with your life so that the homecoming will be that much sooner.

Compounding the issue is the fact that most service members have been trained against excessive public displays of affection while in uniform. In general, once these men and women have passed through the doors of the hangar, they are in full military mode. Except they also are painfully aware that they are about to say goodbye to their family for a long time. They are torn between feeling just as sad but also obligated to maintain a level of professionalism. It wasn’t unusual for Dustin to give me quick shoulder pats and other one-arm hugs while we waited at the terminal.

Some military wives opt to drop off their spouse at the curb outside the terminal to avoid all of the awkwardness.

I suspect that civilians imagine these scenes quite differently. You’d expect a dramatic breakdown, people wailing and clawing at their loved one’s sleeve, begging them to stay. The reality is much different. And ironically, that is exactly what makes departures so heartbreaking. There you are, waiting together in a hangar, watching the clock and making small talk, a situation that ordinarily would be the picture of total boredom, such as waiting for your car at the auto shop. It feels so normal, like doing chores together on a Sunday afternoon.

Then, suddenly, your husband notices that his co-workers are gathering with their green sea bags at the door leading to the tarmac. “Looks like it’s time,” he says. Your heart is beating faster. All this time, you were just sitting there waiting. Now everything is set into motion at a quick pace. You’ve already hugged each other a hundred times; how do you make this one different? Longer? It doesn’t matter, because now there is no time. Your husband is rushed. He quickly pecks you on the cheek. You start to cry. You hug each other one last time. Then he walks away, falls into the crowd of flight suits and sea bags.

And just like that, he is gone.

You wonder, why didn’t we hold each other and not let go that entire time we were waiting and watching the clock. Even as you know that the next time it will be no different.

How Much House is Necessary

2009-10-22T19:27:00.001-07:00

Dustin and I had a large house in Florida. Most people there do. Perhaps it is the heat, which even in the middle of October still can feel as hot as the air from a hair dryer (only with less wind), but most homes in Florida are sprawling. Two-story houses are an anomaly; the bigger the footprint of a house in Florida, the better. This makes it so that no one ever has to touch or be near anyone else in their family. And in that type of heat, who would want to?

Our house was also typical in that it was covered almost entirely with tile and wood floors. Carpet gets too sticky when you're hot. And just like the majority of children nearby, our boys had a large playroom and separate bedroom. They had their own bathroom, too, which I am told stayed remarkably clean most of the time, but I can neither confirm nor deny this because unless I had a reason to venture into the boys’ bathroom, I didn’t see it. That's how big our house was. We had two extra bedrooms and one extra bathroom that were furnished but ultimately not used. We could have stored a minivan in our attic.

So you can imagine our surprise when we received military orders to Maine, and an online search revealed that very few homes are larger than 2,000 square feet. I fell in love with one that is just barely 1,500 square feet.

“The house is perfect, but it just seems, I don't know, kind of small,” I said to our real estate agent.

“You've never had to pay a heating bill, have you?” he said.

On moving day, our boys shamelessly cried when we gave away almost three-quarters of the toys that once filled their playroom in Florida. There just wasn't any room for them. It was my turn to pout, however, when we had to store my piano and the dining room set my grandmother gave to me. I was beginning to believe that our rented storage unit was roomier than our new house.

But then an interesting thing happened. While I swept the kitchen floor, I could hear my boys through the wall, playing in their bedroom, talking to each other about the scariest dream they had ever had, their favorite new friends, and their best and worst subjects in school.

Had they always conversed with each other like this? I wondered.

Whereas they used to go up to their playroom to watch movies and cartoons, now they had to share the living room with everyone else. As I typed on my computer in the kitchen, I could hear the dialogue of the television program and intervene when necessary.

Was “The Clone Wars” always this violent? And when had the boys stopped watching “Franklin”? What other conversations and insights had I missed when my children were upstairs, shut in their playroom?

Once I was in the basement folding laundry when I heard Ford and Owen teasing their little brother, Lindell. I directed my mouth at the ceiling and yelled, “Cut it out or you're both grounded,” and like a snake sneaking up on its prey and bouncing forward to strike, my voice came through the vents on the floor into the boys’ bedroom. They were stunned into silence. Maybe Mom does have eyes in the back of her head, I imagined them thinking.

One year later, I can't imagine living in a large house. Much like soldiers in barracks or college students in dormitories, my family is bonding. We are under each other's foot, in each other's business, but finally living with each other, if not on top of each other. Before, I wasn't sure how my boys would handle sharing a small room and not having a playroom. “I never had my own room until I joined the Navy,” my dad said. “And I never had a playroom.” He turned out just fine. Maybe even better because of it.

In hindsight, our old house was excessive. Our voices echoed off the tall ceilings and wide, open living room, signifying to me the distance that had grown between my family. Our voices don't echo anymore. They seep through the floorboards, out the open screen windows (maybe our neighbors know us a little too well), and through the vents in the next room.

One day, as I was getting dressed upstairs, I heard my boys talking in their room below. “Remember how Mom seemed kind of sad before?” Ford said.

“Yeah, she's much happier now," Owen said.

I smiled to myself, my heart full and grateful. Then I put my lips to the vent on the floor and whispered, “I love you guys.”

Silence.

May the Force be With You

2009-10-22T19:23:00.000-07:00

I’m living with ominous, grotesque creatures. Some of them wear capes. Others have turtlelike armor. A few have bulbous foreheads with long, fleshy stalactites hanging from their ears. Almost all of them carry a weapon, many of which I don’t understand. However, the ones armed with lightsabers are so familiar and abundant on the floor of my boys’ bedroom that I often forget there is no such thing, outside the sci-fi world, as a sword made entirely of light.

More times than I can count in a day I pick these creatures off the floor and put them back where they belong on the shelf. I lift some of them between my thumb and forefinger, as if picking up a soiled diaper, because their faces are so revolting. One, whose name is Darth Maul, repulses me so much I won’t pick him up at all. And all the while, for as long as I’ve been picking up these toys or stepping around them, I’ve listened to my boys discuss their histories.

“Obi-Wan was trained by Qui-Gon Jinn,” Ford tells his younger brother Owen. “Later, Qui-Gon Jinn comes back as a ghost.”

Owen, picking up the lost limb of a wookie: “And we knocked this arm off during the Battle of Kashyyyk, right?”

“Right.”

The only names I recognized from the boys’ talk were “Yoda,” “Darth Vader” and “Luke Skywalker.” I had vague memories of my older brothers, Van and Will, talking about the same people when I was a kid. But General Grievous, Count Dooku and the rest were all but Greek to me.

It bothered me that my boys pretended to have “epic battles” with these characters. It bothered me even more when one morning I awoke to Ford telling Owen, “Let’s pretend our whole house is the Death Star.” (“You know the fate of the Death Star, right?” a friend asked me upon hearing my boys’ plans.)

All this talk of the dark side was getting under my skin. Why did the boys have to wield lightsabers and pretend to use Jedi mind tricks on clones? Why did they have battles to defeat the Sith? And why, 100 times a day, did they make moaning sounds like wookies?

“It’s classic good-versus-evil stuff,” Dustin assured me. “Maybe you should watch the movies so you understand.”

Reluctantly, I sat down to watch all six episodes of “Star Wars.” On-screen I saw the familiar creatures, which until now had lived in my mind only as miniature and plastic, come to life. I saw the AT-AT walkers, which are top-heavy and flexible and never stand up on a shelf. I saw Jango Fett and Anakin as real characters, not just costumes. And finally, I saw what a pod race is and why the boys pretend to have one on the sidewalk with their Big Wheels.

But I also saw something else, something completely unexpected: a compelling story about love, sacrifice and good versus evil. After seeing Vader’s helmet come off and noting the tears in his eyes as he looked at his son, I admit I discovered a lump in my throat. Later, on my way upstairs to bed, I passed by a toy Darth Vader on the ledge, his plastic cape folded back as if blowing in the wind and his red lightsaber held high above Luke’s head, and a little tear sneaked out of the corner of my eye. For the first time, I understood the complexities that Ford and Owen had wrestled with day after day on the floor of their bedroom. This revelation gave me newfound respect for my boys’ play. I was hooked. Unable to stop thinking about the story, I asked my husband and children questions (“What is the meaning of Luke looking at his father’s robotic hand, then looking at his own and lowering his lightsaber?” “How did Darth Vader know about Leia?”) until even they lost interest.

The next day at the gym, Mike, who is 30, saw Ford carrying a toy lightsaber to the child care room.

“Is he a Trekkie or something?” Mike asked.

Two weeks ago, I would have rolled my eyes and sighed. But two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have just purchased a handmade knit hat that looks like Princess Leia’s hairstyle. I wouldn’t have downloaded the lightsaber app on my iPhone. Indeed, two weeks ago, I might have called my sons Trekkies, too.

“Trekkie? Really?” I said to Mike. I walked away shaking my head in disbelief. I had always thought the Force was strong in him. Then I channeled Yoda: “Mmmm, Power of the Force, he must not know. Mysterious are the ways of the ‘Star Wars’ franchise. Strong powers of PR machine Mike has resisted.”

May the Force be with him.

Advice to New Military Wives

2009-10-22T07:58:00.003-07:00

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.

Supporting the War, Questioning the Politics

2009-10-22T07:58:00.001-07:00

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.

Taming Military In-Laws

2009-10-22T07:57:00.001-07:00

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!

Two Types of Shoppers: Men and Women

2009-10-22T07:56:00.001-07:00

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?

Lessons From the Dugout: No Place for Mom

2009-10-22T07:55:00.001-07:00

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.

Some Things You Should Know About Military Men

2009-10-22T07:54:00.001-07:00

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.

Dustin Smiley Forgets to Shave His Legs

2009-10-22T07:53:00.001-07:00

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.

Baby Dolls Get Best of Military Pilot Trained for War

2009-10-22T07:52:00.001-07:00

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."