The Day(s) I Built a Play Set; or, What Being an Army Wife Means to Me

As I've mentioned before, Husband is currently deployed.  But, in the grand scheme of deployments, this one is pretty minimal; in fact, it's not technically even going to be considered a deployment.  It won't reset his deployment clock, which means we run the (very slight) risk of Army turning around as soon as he gets home, sending him to another unit that needs a PA and deploying him for a full year-long deployment.  I seriously doubt that will happen, but it could.  The smartest approach to surviving Army life is to always at least be aware of what could happen.  We're expecting him to miss Sweet D's first birthday (but not by so much that we won't just postpone her party until he gets home) and another anniversary of ours, but if that's all he misses, we still have very little to complain about.

This is our first deployment with kids, so it's taken a bit more adjusting for me than the last one.  The first week was hard on me.  The second week was much easier.  By the third week, I began to realize that I could do this for a year, if I had to (which, thankfully, I don't - at least not this time).

Before he left, we bought a giant play set for the backyard, with the intention that we could get it built relatively quickly, and we'd have a fun and safe place where Ant could burn a lot of energy every day, without me being obligated to take both kids to the park (which is something I don't like doing alone, since I have to hold Sweet D the entire time, so if Ant gets stuck somewhere or slips, I can't just run up and help him with my arms full of baby).

We picked out an awesome one.  A slide, monkey bars, a rock wall, a rope ladder, climbing steps, swings, a tunnel, etc.  There were two different building kits to choose from: do-it-yourself, or ready-to-assemble.  We're not really that big on DitY type stuff, so we spent the money to get the ready-to-assemble kit.  Husband borrowed a friend's pick-up truck, loaded up all the pieces and brought it home.  We unloaded it all and moved all the pieces to the backyard, and Husband got working on it right away.  We figured we could get most of it built over the weekend, and maybe finish up the rest in the evenings after he got home.

How foolish we were.  Destroyed by our own hubris.

Ready-to-assemble simply means that most of the wood has already been cut to size.  Most.  Not all.  None of the wood had pre-drilled holes, but all of the wood required them.  Add to that more than several pieces of fairly warped wood, and we were looking at a lot more than two days' worth of play set building.  Combined with two small, usually screaming and impatient, children, I soon realized the likelihood of the play set ever being finished was dwindling.

Husband worked on it for several hours the first day.  Until all his drill bits were broken.  After a run to the hardware store, he got in a few more hours on Sunday, with meager results.  I'll admit at that point, knowing he was so close to deploying, I was feeling overcome with frustration and anger.  So much for our plan to have the play set finished.  Ever.

After coming home from work, Husband would go out and work on the play set for a couple hours each day.  It was coming along, slowly.  I helped when I had the chance, but for the most part, I just kept the kids from screaming at him so he could work.

Then he went to Ft. Sam Houston for training for a week, and I went to South Dakota for a "vacation."  We got home that weekend, and I decided we had to do as much as we could before he left.  We worked for about four hours on Sunday, again until all our drill bits broke and we had to stop.  On Monday, we found out he would for sure be deploying that weekend (Labor Day weekend), so he was determined not to spend his last days with us out in the blistering heat, working on the damned play set.  I resigned myself to not having the play set while he was gone.

Thursday morning he got a call that he'd be leaving that night at 1:30am.  I was a little frustrated that they'd taken away our last night together, but at least we finally had a time.  Four hours later, they called and moved it back 24 hours.

"That's it," I told him.  "We HAVE to do as much as we can to the play set."

So his last day here, we finished up everything we could.  The main structures were up, and the braces for the swing set.  It was a wooden frame, but at least I could hang the swings by myself.  It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

The morning after Husband left, both kids took a nap at the same time.  Determined to at least get the swings hung, I went out to work on the play set.  In less than two hours, I got the swings hung, the slide securely attached, the rope ladder up, and the rock wall parts in place.  Over the next couple of days, working on the few occasions the kids both napped at the same time, I managed to build the climbing stairs - which involved cutting the 2x8 boards with a manual saw.  I was so proud of myself, I became determined to do as much else as I could.

I've since attached the telescope (it doesn't actually work, but don't tell Ant that), and the tarp over the top, as well.  And I built the monkey bars (which also involved the manual saw, a lot of gigantic bolts, and a good amount of swearing).  The monkey bars are not yet attached, however, because they require two 10.5" holes to be dug where the legs will be secured in the ground, allowing the top to be level.  I struggled for an hour or so one afternoon with a post-hole digger, a shovel, and a pickaxe, and only made it about 6" in the rock-hard soil.

I had more than a few friends comment on how I should either wait or find a "man" who could dig the holes for me.  Surprisingly, I balked at the idea.  At first I didn't know how to explain it, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized, I have to do this myself.  As an Army wife and a mother to our little Army brats, I have to finish this play set, and without help.

"Why?" a friend asked.

"Because.  What if Patrick were killed?  I have to know I can build my kids a play set."

I know it sounds ridiculous, but that's the truth.  I have to prove to myself that I'm good enough, and capable enough, to be both their mother and their father.  I have to be able to bake them awesome Minion cakes, but I also have to be able to build them big play sets.  I have to be twice as patient with them while he's gone, and twice as loving, because I'm both parents right now.  When one of us would get fed up with them, the other takes over.  They deserve the patience and love of two parents.  Whether it's for a day, two months, or 12 months, it doesn't matter.  When one parent is away, the one who stays behind has to be good enough to be both.

The play set is just a microcosm of the reality - just the physical embodiment of my role as "dad," but if I can do it, by myself, then I'll feel confident that I can do anything else.  I can handle a two month, or a nine month, or a fifteen month deployment.  I can be strong enough, loving enough, patient enough to be what my kids deserve - and what civilian kids with both parents at home can take for granted.  If I can do this, I can truly be an Army wife.

The Day I Didn't Have a Blog Post

Okay, so that's been many days.  But today is another Monday without a post.  I don't really have an excuse, either.  Except for the whole Husband deploying and being stuck alone with the Monsters.  But that's not even a very legitimate excuse, since the Monsters have been doing surprisingly well.

Sweet D slept through the night last night.  For the first time ever.  10 straight hours.  The longest she'd ever slept before was 6 hours, and that only happened 2-3 times.  Usually, she sleeps one 4 hr stretch at night, and the rest is anywhere from 20 min - 2 hrs.  I, of course, didn't sleep all night, but instead woke up in a panic at 4am, realizing she hadn't gotten up yet, ran frantically in her room expecting to find her dead.  I'm hoping we've finally broken the over-tired cycle she's been in, and she'll maybe get on a more regular sleeping routine now.  Because that's one thing about babies - if they get too tired, they can't sleep.  What is wrong with you, babies?!  Sometimes I get so hungry, I feel like I'm going to throw up.  But I also have a penchant for throwing up.  I throw up more than any non-bulimic person I've ever encountered, so I'm not sure that's the same thing.

Ant has been handling the deployment fairly well.  He's an expert at distraction, which is evidently his coping method of choice.  Sometimes I try to talk to him about Daddy being gone, and he abruptly changes the topic to inform me of useful tidbits such as, "lids go on our cups so the chocolate milk doesn't spill."  While that IS true, it's not exactly relevant.

My dryer started making very loud noises a few months ago (but still works fine), and sometimes it makes a noise that sounds like the garage door opening.  Ant runs to the top of the stairs and yells out, "Daddy's home!!" but then when I tell him that, no, it was just the dryer, he doesn't seem to care.  He just shrugs it off and returns to whatever he was doing.  The only times he's really seemed to really be upset about Daddy being gone are times when he's already having a meltdown - then he just throws that in there to make me feel worse.

One time (thankfully only once, so far), he was on the floor throwing a fit about something else entirely, and I was about to put him in time out, when he yelled out, "Daddy can't ever come home!"  Oh jeez, how am I supposed to discipline you now?!  So I calmed him down and tried to read him his Daddy Book (a photo book I made for each of the kids with pictures of them and Husband and a little story about how Daddy has to sometimes go away for a long time to keep other soldiers healthy, etc), and then he kicked me, which made disciplining him much easier.

Another time he told me Daddy "went to Holland to get money for pizza."  As you can tell, he has a clear and mature understanding of what's happening.  He may have been trying to say "hospital," and just forgot the word, since Daddy sometimes works in a hospital.  And I do tell him that Daddy goes to work to earn money for us.  Money to buy delicious pizza.

As for myself, it turns out I'm a surprisingly capable person, and this is like a macrocosm of our normal lives: when Husband is at home during the day (weekends, etc), I become immobilized and usually don't even manage to shower, much less clean or do anything else with any semblance of productivity.  But when he goes to work (or to the store on weekends), I'm overcome with a sudden urge to do as many chores as possible while he's gone.  Now that he isn't coming home for a few months, my motivation has turned to larger things - cleaning out and organizing the garage, building an entire playset in the backyard (my neighbors have learned that I have a filthy mouth), and I'm slowly becoming obsessed with our weed-filled lawn.  I enjoy mowing and weed whacking it.  I'm excited for the weather to cool down a bit so I can rent an aerator and plant grass seed.  And hopefully some trees.  If we had a ton of money sitting around, I'd do all our landscaping plans myself.

I'm sorry this isn't funny.  Literally nothing humorous happened to me all week.  I'll try better this week, or at least try to get the motivation to tell another good story from my past.  I can't even come up with a short anecdote for you, because The Wiggles are singing loudly at me in the background (the only method I could come up with to keep Sweet D from smashing the keyboard, short of locking her away somewhere), and Anthony Wiggle is wearing some suggestive butterfly costume with tights, and I just can't concentrate.  I may have a crush on Anthony Wiggle.  There's a chance the kids don't even like this show, but I force them to watch it so I can get lost in his dreamy blue eyes.  Oh, I'll tally your bananas, Anthony.  Daylight come, indeed.

The Day I Got Engaged

I love super romantic engagement stories. I tear up every time I see an engagement on TV, even if it's not overly thoughtful or romantic. Like most women, I guess I'm just a sucker for love. So that's why I wanted to share my own engagement story. Get ready to be disappointed by your own stories - if they don't involve pedophilia, dirt, the f-word, and Kentucky, you ain't got nothin' on us.

At the end of my senior year of college, Husband (then Boyfriend) and I were exclusively dating, but neither of us were overly convinced of the long-term sustainability of our relationship. I had recently been awarded a Fulbright scholarship and would be leaving in early September to spend a year in Germany. Our initial reaction was to end the relationship, since we were sure we'd never last (or want to last) a year away from each other.

Husband still had another year of college left (although he is older than me, he didn't join ROTC until his Sophomore year, so he had to do a fifth year of college in order to meet all of the ROTC requirements to commission on time with his graduation), and the summer before the last year of ROTC is full of Army-training-goodness. Because of this, we would only have about three weeks in August to actually spend with each other before I left for Germany. So we basically decided to spend the last couple weeks of May together, to enjoy each others' company while we could.

Of course, those fateful weeks made us realize we actually did, in fact, like each other, we both had the same goals in life, and we turned out to be surprisingly compatible.

In early June, Husband left for the Army's Leader Development and Assessment Course (LDAC) in Ft. Lewis, WA (it's basically a giant test of everything they're supposed to learn in ROTC - then they're ranked on their performance, and this ranking helps the Army assign them to their branches, decide which jobs they should have, and determine their first duty station after graduation/commissioning). Because he wasn't allowed to use phones or the internet, I wrote him letters almost every day (how old fashioned and romantic!). As soon as he finished the LDAC course, he was flown to Ft. Campbell, KY to do a Cadet Troop Leader Training course (CTLT) with an aviation unit there.

He called from the airport in Kentucky and told me, since he was staying in a hotel for the entire CTLT course, I could come and spend the three weeks there with him. Like a young person in love (and without a job), I jumped in the car an hour later and drove 13.5 hours straight, from South Dakota to Ft. Campbell.

Over the course of the LDAC letters, we'd basically decided we wanted to get married. It really only seemed logical. Kentucky would be a test to see if we were sure. We talked about marriage, divorce, children, religion, etc, and discovered we shared almost all of the same ideologies and philosophies, and, let's face it, we could tolerate each other better than any of the other people we'd dated. Isn't that the ultimate test of marriage-compatibility? We can spend exponentially more time in a small room together before wanting to bash each other's heads in than with anyone else we'd ever met. True love at it's finest.

So we went ring shopping. We picked out a ring together, he ordered it, and they said they'd call when it was in. Then we went about our daily CTLT lives - Husband went to work every morning, I wasted time until he was finished for the day, and we spent the evenings going out for dinner and hanging out with the other cadets doing CTLT at Ft. Campbell.

One day toward the end of the course, Husband suggested we go to the nearby town to stop by the mall, get some dinner, and maybe go see a movie. He picked a teppanyaki-style restaurant (where they cook the food on the big griddle in front of you at your table), and we got relatively dressed up.

I have to admit, I suspected something. I knew he'd bought the ring and was waiting for it to be delivered to the store, and I had a pretty good idea that he was going to ask me to marry him while we were still in Kentucky. What better place than a super-romantic, fancy dinner? I'd always loved the idea of being proposed to in a restaurant, with all the other customers looking on and clapping for us as I wiped tears out of my eyes and happily said, "yes, of course I'll marry you!!" Sort of like a miniature version of our 15 minutes of fame. The restaurant would probably even give us a free dessert so we could feed bites to each other and solidify the public image of our undying love for each other.

The waitress who came to take our drink order asked if we were there for a special occasion. I glanced nervously at Husband, who also seemed exceptionally anxious. "No, just here for dinner," he told her. He was obviously trying to build up the suspense - waiting for the perfect moment to get down on one knee and ask me to make him the happiest man in the world.

We ordered our food, and the chef prepared it. I'd never been at one of those types of restaurants before, but I was almost too nervous to really enjoy the show the chef was putting on. I could almost feel the ring burning in Husband's pocket. Waiting for its big debut.

We ate our food and finished our drinks. Still nothing from Husband. Okay, he must be waiting till we're about to leave.

The waitress came by with the check and Husband paid.

Wait, what? Why are we leaving? What about my fancy-restaurant, romantic proposal? All these people are just sitting here, waiting to clap and be excited for us! They all want to look at us and exclaim about what an adorable, young, clearly-in-love couple we are! Their dinners will end so anticlimactically!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING, HUSBAND?!

We walked out into the parking lot, and Husband suggested we start to walk toward the movie theater in the mall, even though we had about an hour and a half to waste until our movie started. I was starting to feel stupid for having expected a proposal. He was probably wondering why I was acting so strange and nervous. But I couldn't shake the feeling that he was acting strangely, too.

The mall parking lot was in some state of being re-done. The current stage seemed to be "torn up, covered in dirt, and not tended to in over a year." As we started the trek across the dirt-covered, cracked cement lot, the sun finished setting, and the street lights came on, illuminating the mostly-vacant, kind of creepy area on the backside of the mall. I could feel myself getting more and more agitated and irritated with Husband. I felt so stupid; I'd been convinced he was going to ask me at the restaurant. What a disappointment. How could I have so completely misread the situation?

As we walked along, Husband noticed a group of scantily-clad teenage girls walking in front of us across the dirt lot.

"Don't look at those girls," I told him, letting the irritation take over.

"But look at what they're wearing. Pretty hot."

"They're like 14 years old! That's disgusting."

"Mmm, underage girls... that's the best."

I knew he was joking, but I was so emotionally strung out after the last hour and a half of bitter disappointment, I just let the frustration take over.

"Seriously, if you're going to act like that, I'm not even going to walk with you," I said as I walked faster to get away from him.

"Aww, come on, Laura, I'm sorry. Come back here and hold my hand."

"No, I'm serious. I'm not in the mood. Walk by yourself, or go ask those children to walk with you, if you're so interested in them," and I stomped further away from him.

"Please, Laura? What could I do to get you to come back and hold my hand?"

"Nothing. I'm done."

"Nothing? Not even this?"

I turned around to see him, down on one knee, in the dirt and weeds of the torn up cement parking lot, holding up a little ring box and smiling at me from ear to ear.

"Are you f---ing kidding me?"

Yes, that's right. That is word-for-word what I said in response to my proposal. The epitome of romance.

I walked back to him, and he actually asked me to marry him. I, evidently, said yes. It wasn't how I ever imagined it would be, but I honestly couldn't fathom my proposal being any different than it was. At the very least, it was a microcosm of our relationship. No matter how much Husband can piss me off, he can always make me laugh again. That was almost six years ago, and I still haven't tried to bash his head in.

(It should also be noted that, while reading over this before I publish it, I teared up. Guess it is kind of romantic in its own, weird way. I love you, Husband!)

How to PCS Like a Genius

In Army-ese "PCS," or Permanent Change of Station, is the infinitive for "to move." We recently PCSed from San Antonio to Ft. Leonard Wood, in Somewhere-in-the-middle-of-a-big-ass-forest, Missouri. Maybe you've heard of it? It's about an hour and a half south of Frankenstein, MO, my dad's hometown and my prime childhood summer vacation spot. Surely you've at least heard of Frankenstein...

This was only our second official PCS (reporting to the first duty station didn't really count, even though we did have an Army-paid-for move, because we didn't really have our own furniture, so we had them just go to my dad's (in South Dakota - for some reason, he got to bug to leave Frankenstein during his youth) and pack up my old bedroom furniture). And I personally believe we've accomplished a boastful list of PCS must-dos.

Indirectly murder sister-in-law's dog? Check.
Drive 34+ hours for what should have reasonably taken little more than 13? Check.
Sign a year-long lease without having ever set our eyes on the house? Check.
Choose a house that can only be reached on such winding, Ozark backwoods roads that the moving truck physically cannot deliver household goods? Check.
Lose all hope after seeing new house and the dreadful condition of it? Check.
Regain hope after seeing how much better house looks with things in it (even just unpacked boxes)? Check.
Laugh until I cry about ridiculous and dreadful condition of new house (and pretend that all the tears are happy tears)? Check.
Repeatedly tell myself, "it's just a year. It's just a year?" Check.
Discover secret gremlin doors in various walls of new house? Check.
Flood new house with an explosion of soapy water from the washer and a leaky pipe from the dishwasher? Check.
Fail to be surprised that two of the four of our major appliances were broken during the move? Check.
Be ecstatically happy that two of our four major appliances were not broken during the move? Check.
Discover half-eaten rotting mammalian creature in garbage can swamp water? Check.
Succeed in pissing off new property manager with maintenance requests within 48 hours of signing lease? Check.
Declare ice/water dispenser on fridge (which belongs to the house) in the kitchen to be unsanitary and place Haz-Mat signs over both openings? Check.
Declare jacuzzi tub in master bath to be unsanitary and debate placing Haz-Mat plywood board over the top but decide against it because it "would look too tacky?" Check.
Feel bitter toward myself for having previously said, "I can live in anything for just a year!"? Check.
Be glad (and smirk in an "I told you so" way at Husband) that packing our toilet seats purchased for the last house was a good decision? Check.
Discover termites in new house within a week of moving in (just like the last house)? Check.
Get excited about the new post with it's new (to me) PX and Commissary? Check.
Find thought-to-be-lost items while unpacking every single item we own? Check. This has to be the biggest perk of moving every year.
Start an ant farm in my refrigerator? Check.
Finally accept my fate in this ridiculous house and regain some of the initial excitement of moving to a new place after reinstating my constant mantra, "it's just a year?" Check.

What an interesting two weeks it's been.

Instead of driving straight up here from San Antonio, we decided to go and stay with Husband's parents (who only live 4 hours away), so we wouldn't be stuck in lodging on post for a week. It was a good decision, overall, but it almost tripled the amount of time we spent driving. Not because they live out of the way, but because rural, small town Missouri is run by small town folk who are bound and determined to have the final say in all matters related to their small town, in spite of the enormous Army post threatening to take away their small town status (oh, and helping their small town to thrive by flooding their economy with tons of money and outrageously overpaying rental prices out of necessity). We, naively, thought we could call in and switch the utilities to our name over the phone (because we've been able to do that everywhere we've ever lived - and so have all of our parents, everywhere THEY'VE ever lived). But we were wrong. Also, we naively thought we could sign the lease and THEN get the utilities in our name. Also wrong. And finally, we naively thought we could meet with the property manager on the morning our household goods were scheduled to arrive to sign the lease and get the keys. Guess who was wrong again?

So we drove up to Arkansas, spent a day with the parents, then left Boy with them and drove up to take care of utilities/lease (as per Property Manager Bitch's demands) on Friday. The utilities were easy enough - one perk of the small town is that all utilities are maintained by the City Hall - water, electric, gas, waste, and trash/recycling. All one bill, all from City Hall. After getting our proof of utilities in our name, we attempted to meet with PMB, whom we had informed of our short day trip to town and desire to escape town quickly with the looming 4 hr drive home lurking over our heads. PMB, however, refused to meet us until 3pm.

We were early to her office, and she, of course, made us wait. Her ridiculous grandma hairstyle with tight curls was dyed a ridiculous maroon color, and the look was only complimented by her capri-length wind-breaker exercise pants. The real irony was that her screen saver was a floating marquee stating "You are a beautiful, smart, and sexy woman!" She copped an attitude with us almost immediately, informing us that we were supposed to come to her office BEFORE going to City Hall to get the utilities in our names, so that we could pick up her form for them to fill out - stating which companies we were paying for each of our utilities. Not only did she neglect to tell us this (and evidently expected us to get the paper at 3pm, go to City Hall before they closed at 4pm, go BACK to her office to sign the lease papers, and THEN drive 4 hrs back to Arkansas), but the two-page form seemed a bit excessive to write "City of Waynesville" for every utility (since there is no other option for any of the utilities within the city limits).

She also informed us that she "just wanted to be fair." Stating that the house was "not perfect," and we should know that it's "been lived in hard," I joked that it wouldn't be a problem (oh, my naiveté!), as long as she didn't expect to get it back in perfect condition. She glared at me and said, "I think we should just all be fair." Evidently, she's not the joking type.

After a painful hour of going over the lease with the PMB, she finally handed over the keys. Well, she tried to, but she couldn't find them. Then when her secretary managed to find them, she informed us that she didn't know which keys went to what at the house, and she only had a copy of the front door key, so if we could please find out what the other keys went to and get her a copy of them, she'd surely appreciate it. I put that at the top of my to-do list.

After a cursory glance at the house (long enough to feel the impending dread weaving itself into the fibers of my being), we drove the 4 hours back to Arkansas.

We decided to relax the next day. Husband went to play outside with Boy and the dogs (our dogs were also staying at their house, and Husband's sister had a Westie dog). After a few minutes outside, Husband came rushing back in, holding a hysterically screaming Boy. "Pog bit him," he said as he handed Boy over. I calmed Boy down (who was most definitely hurting, but probably more scared, and was babbling about "dog" in between sobs), and looked at the damage. Fortunately, it was on his ankle, and he was wearing pants. The dog broke the skin, but only from sideways scratches - there were no puncture wounds. As far as dog bites go, we were as lucky as you can possibly be. Boy calmed down after not too long - but he's still very nervous around our dogs.

Husband called his parents right away - and his dad drove home from work, picked up the dog (Pog), took him to the vet, and had him put down. This was not Pog's first biting offence - he'd bitten Sister-in-law just the weekend before, and he'd bitten Father-in-law once very badly on the hand. I think there were other biting incidents in there, too, but overall, he was a very unpleasant dog. But Boy wasn't even playing with him or paying any attention to him. He was minding his own business, and Pog just snapped, turned and grabbed his ankle and started to shake it. Everyone (including Sister-in-law) agreed the dog needed to be put down. But Husband and I still felt awful - we're the best kind of house guests - we'll come visit and kill your pets!

Later that day, Boy fell on the driveway and skinned his knee, cut the side of his nose (somehow), hit himself in the face with a wooden ball-and-cup toy, splitting open the skin under his eyebrow and giving himself a mild black eye, and then face-dove into a wicker indoor plant basket, scratching his face again. It must be exhausting to be a 20 month old boy.

The next day (Sunday), Husband and I drove back up to the house in the evening to fill out our walk-through inventory form (it only took about 3.5 hours to write down everything wrong with the house - which is basically everything in the house), and stay the night in preparation for our moving truck to arrive Monday morning. We were at the house and ready to go by 7am. Our driver had called around 7:15 and said he'd be there within the hour.

By 8:30, we were getting antsy. Then the driver called again to inform us that he couldn't possibly get up the street into our neighborhood. It was simply too windy, too steep, and too narrow. At first, I felt disbelief. Husband informed him of another road that goes into our neighborhood - he said he'd try it.

An hour later (what was the guy doing for an hour??), he called again to say he couldn't make it up that road, either. So he was calling his company to see if they had a pallet truck he could use for the day - to transfer all our household goods onto and then make multiple trips with that truck to the house. After another hour, we decided to run to Starbucks.

Husband called the driver to see if we had time to make our Starbucks run, and he told us they got a truck, and they'd be there with the first load in about 45 min. So we drove down to the Starbucks (it can't be THAT small and rural of a town! Don't worry, it's not a self-standing Starbucks, it's in the local grocery store - Price Cutters - or as our friendly new neighbor called it, "Price Rapers"), and as we were about to pull into the parking lot, I saw it. OUR moving truck. I knew it was ours, because it was a United van with the same origin company name on the side. I started screaming loudly in Husband's ear. We stared, unspeaking, as the truck pulled into the grocery store parking lot - followed by a rented U-Haul. I made Husband go over to talk to the driver, who informed us that they would, in fact, be moving all of our stuff from the truck into the U-Haul in the middle of the parking lot. I felt like I was on Jerry Springer - here were all of my possessions - my entire identity, being dragged out for all to see, and in the Price Rapers' parking lot, no less. If only my fridge had been cheating on my deep freeze with the scantily-clad elliptical, I'm sure Jerry would have been there with cameras rolling.

We got our Starbucks and headed back to the house to wait. Husband went inside to do something, and, to keep myself busy, I began to explore the outside. There are trash cans left over on the side of the house, so I went to look at them. Behind the three with lids, there was a forth one, not in the little wooden trash can stall. I glanced in it and saw that it was half filled with stagnant, filthy water - and about a billion bugs. I could only imagine the size of the mosquito nest that must be thriving in it. I called Husband over to dump it out - which he did obligingly. He tipped the garbage can out, pointing the disgusting swamp water downhill, and suddenly, out of the garbage swamp, there it was.

Lying in the grass, surrounded by the remains of garbage swamp, a half-eaten mammalian creature. Of course, this all happened right as the U-Haul truck pulled into the driveway. The smell that was unleashed from the creature and the swamp was the worst thing I could ever imagine. Layers upon layers of the worst smells possible - death, rotting, stagnant water, mosquito nest poop. Laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the situation, I stumbled away from it, gagging and trying not to throw up all over the driveway. I looked up and saw 4 of the 5 person moving crew looking at me like I was a complete lunatic. Husband tried to explain to them that there was a dead animal in a trash can swamp, but these Ozark folk were not fazed - nor did they find the humor in the situation. Evidently, dead garbage swamp minks are a commonplace occurrence 'round these here parts.

The movers were excellent, though, and got everything unloaded in just a few hours (and only 5 trips with the U-Haul). As soon as everything was in the house, Husband and I jumped back in the car and headed BACK to Arkansas (we'd left Boy with Sister-in-law there so he wouldn't be in the way of the movers - it was a very smart decision).

After one very short day of resting, we packed up all our bags, dogs, and kid, and drove up to the new house on Wednesday morning for good. Thanks to some miracle of the timing fates, my dad had just finished his annual fishing trip with his brothers not far from us and drove down to spend a few days with us. He played with Boy while we unpacked, helped us unpack, ran to the store for us, and played with Boy some more. After just 3 days, we got the last box unpacked.

Unfortunately, my beautiful new fridge that we bought in San Antonio just last year does not fit in the fridge nook in the kitchen. Instead, we had to leave the fridge that came with the house there - and banish my beloved to the garage. It wouldn't be so bad if the fridge in the house weren't older than I am. It also would have helped if the cleaning crew that supposedly came through the house had wiped out the hardened puddles of food spillage and rot. Somehow, this ancient contraption has a water and ice dispenser. The spill tray on the dispenser looked like it had never seen a cleaning rag in it's entire lengthy existence. But I told myself it would be fine. After all, the water doesn't touch the spill tray.

But the water DOES touch the water spout. And the ice touches the ice shoot. Upon further investigation (instigated by my desire to scrub everything into oblivion with clorox disinfecting wipes before any member of my family could ingest any terrible particles from any part of the house), both were revealed to be the happy homes to a healthy colony of mold. Reeling from disgust, I reassured myself that I, at least, had ice trays already from three houses ago, and I could simply make my own ice. And it wasn't so bad - I still have my beautiful fridge and deep freeze out in the garage, patiently waiting for me to fill their lovely shelves with over-flow food and ice storage.

I went out to bask in the warm glow of my darlings, now banished to the garage. I threw open the doors in a show of ceremonious reuniting and love, only to be horrified by the sight that greeted me - and will haunt my dreams for days (maybe even weeks) to come.

ANTS.

All over my lovelies. How they got in to both closed and sealed units, I have no idea. At this point, I was too overwhelmed to react. I simply went and sat on the couch, staring blankly into space for about a hour, in spite of Husband's attempts to console me - he called Terminix and got us an account for life (it moves with us!); he turned on both units so the ants would die of cold; he even wiped out all three units (not the moldy dispenser, though - none of us will ever be touching that thing) so I wouldn't have to face the aftermath of Ant Takeover 2010.

Finally, I recovered by doing the only thing that seemed rational. I made laminated HAZ-MAT signs and taped them to both sides of the offending dispenser. At least now we don't have to be tempted by the lurking spores of cool, crisp, refrigerated water.

We began to settle in to the new house. After discovering that the knob to my clothes dryer had been violently torn off, Patrick called Maytag to get a replacement part, and we discovered a way we could still turn on the dryer by jimmying it with a wrench, jumping up and down on the dryer, and doing an ancient Mayan warm air-invoking smoke dance.

One evening, after putting Boy to bed, we decided it was time we did some laundry. We started a load in the washer and went to watch a little tv and relax, since Husband would be starting back to rigorous Army life scheduling the next day. After less than 10 minutes of peace, we heard a terrible noise. It was like normal washer noises, but magnified by about 100. It sounded like a waterfall had just burst through our laundry room ceiling.

Instantly, we both jumped up and ran as quickly as we could into the laundry room - and there, to my horror, I realized my bizarre thought-association had come true. There WAS a giant waterfall, but it was pouring out of the wall of our laundry room. Husband, being the smarter and more rational of the two of us, turned the water off to the washer and stopped the waterfall. As it turned out, the draining cord from the washer had simply come out of its little draining hole - and soaked the entire room with gallon upon gallon of clean, soapy water. We also learned that the wall between the laundry room and the garage is not a very good one, as the garage, too, got soaked in our indoor water-slide experiment. We used the 8 extra towels I could find to mop up as much water as we could.

After fixing the washer hose so it couldn't possibly escape to watery freedom again, we cautiously turned the washer back on, threw the towels in the dryer, did our Mayan air dance, and turned to go back to the living room. That's when things got fun.

The washer and the dryer decided they were tired of their boring middle-aged lives, and they missed the fun, careless times they had when they were young. They decided to relive their youth and throw a dance party in the laundry room. I believe they were trying to do the Salsa, but since I'm a terrible dancer, I couldn't be exactly sure.

We immediately put an end to their youthful exuberance, spent 30 minutes trying to level the washer ("but the level says it IS level! I just don't understand!!"), and got it working again. The dryer was not so cooperative. If you've ever dried a pair of tennis shoes in a dryer, you know how loud the thumping can be. Now imagine if those tennis shoes were made of solid gold with lead laces and bass drum soles. That's a fair approximation of how loud the thumping noise is with absolutely nothing in the dryer. We called in a repairman for that one, and we're still waiting, with our clothes getting more and more desperate.

While doing our walk-through renter's inventory of damages, we ran the dishwasher to see if it worked. Everything seemed fine, and we let it run through an entire cycle. By the time we got to the basement bathroom on our check-list, it was completely flooded. The ceiling tile at the source of the leak was already missing, exposing the skeletal pipes that were draining their water onto the cheap, orange-water-stained linoleum floors. We put in a maintenance request for the dishwasher to be fixed the next day, and now, nearly two weeks later, we're still waiting.

The rest of the exciting "adventures" we've experienced here don't need as much explanation. The exterminator came to spray for ants (we still have an ant problem, a week later), and he found termites next to the house (but not technically IN it yet - hopefully we won't have termites eating through the walls here like we did in the last house). We discovered terrifying gremlin doorways in several rooms in the house, behind toilets, in secret corners of closets, etc. Inside one door, we found a used tissue and a Joe Boxer tag. Evidently, gremlins are modest and hygienic creatures. The jets in our very classy 80's pee-yellow jacuzzi tub (set around seafoam green tiles with mauve walls and a seashell boarder around the top of the room) are so black with mold and filth, I think they might be a bio-hazard. PMB acted like we were the most frustrating renters in the history of all rental homes when we demanded they install smoke detectors in the house. Among other things that either currently escape my memory or are too unremarkable to note.

The final touch provided by the house to really top off and perfect this move was this little momento we found outside the basement door, on the cement patio, staring at us with its cold, dead, unblinking, but all-seeing eyes:

Welcome to Missoura, Folks.