I Think My “Survival Mode” is Broken!

As my husband prepares for his upcoming weeks long stint out of the country, I'm watching all the things he's packing. Pants that zip off into shorts, rain gear, his iPad for the long flight; stuff that will make travel easier and allow him to keep functioning in a variety of different circumstances. I should be preparing, too. ( There are ways to stay strong during deployment !) The first 24 hours after my husband leaves are usually one epic fail after another as I get used to compensating for his absence again. I will do a lot of muttering. And sweating. I will probably have crazy eyes and most definitely crazy hair. I will be a few tight-chested breaths away from a full-on panic attack. And that will all be within the first five minutes. How will I survive? You will, we can help . My five-year-old informed me recently that she has a switch on her big toe that allows her to sing like a boy to the boy songs on the radio. She flips back to her normal voice to sing the girl songs. I really, really wish I could get a "Survival Mode" switch installed somewhere on my body so I could just flip it on and instantly be ready to shoulder all the responsibilities of a shared life. I'll have to get the name of her electrician. But until then, I'll have to just believe that my rock star rhythm will eventually kick in. And while I'm waiting to once again surprise myself with how well I can meet a myriad of demands and maintain my cool, my day will probably go something like this: Wake up to the alarm on my phone 20 minutes before the tardy bell rings at my daughters' school. Yes , I set it for an hour ahead like the hubby always does when he's here, but I hit snooze a couple of times. Actually, six times. Now, it's "run like the wind" mode. Like "Category 5 hurricane, imminent-death-around-the-corner wind" mode. Skid into the drop off area with two wrinkled (hubby does the ironing), but dressed girls and one screaming toddler still in his pajamas right as the car helpers are heading inside (hubby takes the girls to school), which means if I jump out, rip them from their car seats, and shoo them toward the door before the helpers get there, they can still get in without being counted tardy or getting locked out. Run, girls, ruuuuuun! Drive home feeling semi-victorious that I at least did not have to get out and walk the girls in in my bathrobe, carrying the aforementioned screaming pajama boy. We might have been the last car to go through the drop-off line, but we made it. I live on that high until I turn onto our street and see the garbage truck laboring down the road toward our house. I didn't remember to roll the trash bin to the end of the driveway (another one of hubby's jobs), and there is no way we can afford to miss a week with the kind of diapers this boy produces. I blow past the truck, tires screeching as I throw the car in park and hop out in front of the garage. I wrestle with the ridiculously full and foul-smelling bin while the boy begins a new series of wails because I didn't get him out of his car seat. I manage to heave it onto its wheels and break into a full run down the driveway, dragging the bin behind me. Which works fine, until I get to the incline. The bin picks up speed at an alarming rate, and I almost get run over. By a trashcan . But never mind, because I get it out there in time. The boy and I make it inside and collapse on the couch. When I've recovered from my near-death experience, I turn on "Jake and the Never Land Pirates" and get the box of Cheerios off the table. No, I don't usually let the toddler eat straight from the box on the couch, but it's been a rough morning. I have an hour before I have to leave to take my son to a Mommy and Me class. I could take a shower or remain completely stationary for half an hour. It's obvious I made the wrong choice when, 45 minutes later, I nearly suck a Cheerio down my windpipe that the boy menace put in my mouth while I was sleeping. I sit up, coughing and shedding Cheerios. I am still in my bathrobe and the boy is wearing nothing but Cowboy boots and a pacifier. And the class is 30 plus miles away. It's run like the wind time again. Arrive at the Mommy and Me class 15 minutes late and gasping for breath. Do not make eye contact with all the other moms, mostly military, probably also with absentee husbands, who made it here on time. After class, contemplate going on base to the MCX and Commissary since I'm in town, then realize that my DoD decal expired last month and the renewal my husband kept meaning to get for me? Yeah. Not here. And while my military ID is current, I don't really want to take the chance that the Marines posted at the main gate will do a car search. Biological warfare could probably be waged with the specimen currently residing in the backseat: stinky cleats, chocolate milk boxes going on their third week in the cup holders, gooey goldfish, and the lingering smell of vomit, even though I washed my son's seat cover after he threw up last week. Wait, did I ? And that's not all: head injuries are waiting to happen from beach chairs, softball gear, and strollers that will hemorrhage out the back if they open the trunk. Opt for the grocery store on the way home instead. Have just enough time to feed the boy lunch and get the groceries put up before I have to pick the girls up from school. Consider that this might be the time that "Survival Mode" doesn't kick in as I plunder the depths of my brain for a Bob Ross kind of happy place to go to while I help my 8-year-old with her math homework. I've lost count of how many times I've explained ordinal numbers and rounding to her or how many I've caught her craning her neck to see the "Bubble Guppies" episode the younger two are watching in the den. If it's the one with the Lady Gaga song in it, I've lost all hope of getting through to her. I wish I could float away on a happy little cloud right now. Forever . Ignore the girls' outraged claims that chicken nuggets and mandarin oranges are no longer the "special treat" for supper when Daddy's not home that I convinced them it was years ago. Justify it with if it eliminates my need to cook, it is still a special treat. Stand at the back door and make big sweeping motions with my arm as the girls scramble to get softball socks and cleats on. Get to practice and spend the next two hours chasing the boy out of the dugout, off the field, away from the road. Decide that this absolutely counts as a workout on the Wii Fit Challenge I set up three weeks ago and then never started. Get everyone home and in the bathtub/shower. Well, at least all the children. I still haven't taken one. Decide after being splashed repeatedly by the younger two I'm bathing (hubby's job), that I got one after all. I feel like I have just ridden Splash Mountain without any of the fun. After pajamas are on and teeth are brushed, pile everyone into my bed because, well, that's our little ritual when Daddy's not home and we can all still fit, for now. I snuggle in amongst little arms and legs that will be trapping me in place a few short hours from now and listen to their breath get deeper and slower. I'm exhausted, but I managed to make it through the day. And then I realize: (apart from the fact that I REALLY appreciate my husband) the whole time I was waiting for "Survival Mode" to kick in, it was already working. "Survival mode" is really just doing more with less time and less resources, something military spouses are so used to doing and do so well, we sometimes don't even acknowledge we're doing it. Sure, there were some kinks that'll have to get worked out in order for me to function without losing my mind over the next few weeks, but this was just the first day. I belong to one of the most capable and resilient groups of people in the world. I'm a milspouse. So tomorrow, and the next day, and the next...I've SO got this.

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