Incidents

I remember one time when I was about 10 or 11 years old, riding in my parents' old white Ford car. My dad bought it cheap from the police department when they upgraded to newer vehicles. The car was as big as a boat and had a bright gold bumper sticker that said, "My child is an honor student at Bay Elementary School." That's right, read it and weep. I was once brilliant. This blog entry may prove otherwise. Anyway, my dad was driving, and I don't really remember my mom being with us, but for some reason, I was in the backseat. Maybe Mom was there, but I feel like if she were, she would have been a little more, well, accommodating than my dad. We were riding to who knows where, and I was eating ice from a dixie cup, or McDonalds cup, or some sort of cup. I was munching away when I must have bitten off more than I could chew because a huge hunk of ice went down the wrong pipe and I was instantly gasping for breath. I was panicking! I couldn't breathe or talk, so I started punching the back of Dad's seat. He looked at me in the rear-view mirror, then back to the road ahead. Seconds later, I swallowed the ice chunk and oxygen finally filled my lungs. I collapsed back in my seat, relieved but still scared. "Dad!!" I yelled, "Why didn't you HELP me!? I was choking!!" My dad, calm and cool, eyes still focused on the road said, "It was ice. I knew it'd melt at some point."

So today, I had a couple of similar incidents. I'm not proud of them, but I know my husband is. I prove my intelligence to him daily, and I know he is in complete awe. I'm still an honor student.

My in-laws are in town for Derick's TBS graduation (which was last night, so GOOD JOB BABY). Today, we headed down the road to Fredericksburg to see the Battle of Fredericksburg battlefield, which is really cool so you need to go there if you get the chance. After that, we went to downtown Fredericksburg, where really old buildings line the streets. There are tons of antique shops, ice cream parlors, vintage clothing stores, and my favorite, a doggie boutique! We were just walking around, window shopping and stopped at a large glass window that encased one of those displays of a battle with the tiny soldiers and fake trees that look like little broccoli. Derick and his parents were peering in when a really weird tiny soldier caught my eye. He was wearing what seemed to be a white sweatshirt, obviously not Civil War attire, and he was leaning back like he was water skiing. Don't ask why it was so interesting to me, but I leaned forward to see what was up with that guy and why the heck he was skiing during the middle of the Battle of Fredericksburg. Well, my lean must have been a forceful one because I smacked my forehead on the glass. That sort of makes the incident seem a little bland, so let me say: I must have lunged forward, like a mad bull, head first into that glass. The sound was like that of (for the BHS alumni) Bus 6 backfiring about 10 minutes before the final bell rang. Derick and his parents laughed, and so did I, but, nonetheless, I felt really smart.

The next incident occurred later in the day at our apartment. Derick's parents had gone to their hotel, and Derick and Paris (our dog, for those of you who are way out of the loop, and if you don't know who Paris is, then you probably don't know me, so nice to meet you) were taking a nap in our bedroom. I grabbed one of those Fla-Vor-Ice popsicles out of the freezer and sat down to watch Dr. Phil address "Violent Children."
How do you open your Fla-Vor-Ice? Sometimes, if I have the energy, I grab a pair of scissors and cut it open at the top, but most of the time, I'm feeling too lazy to reach for the scissors, so I just break the thing. Today, I broke the thing, and tuned in to see what kind of defiant kid Dr. Phil would cure. Well, one bite in, and guess what? I felt like punching the back of the seat in a former police cruiser. I gasped for breath but found none. I couldn't breathe or talk, and I started to panic because my husband, though usually helpfully calming, was conked out in the bedroom. So, I jumped up and ran to the bedroom, which is maybe twenty feet from where I was sitting, and while in the hall, I POUNDED on the wall with my palm. As soon as I made all the racket I possible could, I faintly whispered, "I'm choking. I'm choking. Help." (Derick will lie and say my faint whisper was more like a "holler," but he's lying.) At the sound of my wall pounding, Derick had jumped up out of the bed and was already halfway to me. Paris just perked her ears up a little and glared at me as if to ask, "Who dares to awake me from my slumber?" Upon my whisper, Derick laid back down, closed his eyes, and said, "No, you're not choking. You're talking." Thankfully, the popsicle melted. Thanks, Dad. Annoyed, Derick went back to sleep, but because I was a little embarrassed about my overreaction and false-scare choking, I dramatically plopped on the bed and continued to say that I was choking. (This is a big admittance for me.) Derick kept telling me that I was fine, but I insisted I was not by saying, "I didn't want to die, Derick, I didn't want to die!"

Derick finished his nap, and I caught the end of "Violent Children." So all in all, it was a good day.

I was choking.

Thus far

As I sit in our mostly packed up living room in our apartment in Stafford, Virginia, one day away from Derick's triumphant completion of The Basic School at Marine Corps Base Quantico, I am thinking fondly of the previous six months. I just finished a microwavable bean burger and the Price is Right. Upon my last bite, during the Showcase Showdown, I found myself wishing that I'd kept more an account of our journey thus far in the United States Marine Corps. So, I decided to begin a blog in hopes that maybe I can stick with it when we reach our new duty station, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Blogging is a good way for my family back in the boondocks of Arkansas to keep track of their wild hair relative who ventured up north where no one has heard of catfish buffets or slug bugs (shout out to my Yankee friend Beth and Canadian friend Shannon, also MC wives, respectively). So, if this blog suits the purpose of my close relatives simply keeping tabs on me, then it's worth it.

Orientation (I thought I'd throw that in there to impress Derick)
Once upon a time Derick blurted out the idea of joining the Marine Corps. I laughed, but after some persistence, he convinced me to let him go talk to a recruiter in our town. Derick and I had been married for over three years, and we were somewhat settled into our identities as "that long-haired, barefoot, hippie couple that sits in the grass, Indian style, and plays guitar and sings." We were cool with that. However, Derick had always played with the idea of being a Marine and began to discretely become more serious with the issue. He explained that with his college degree, he could attend Officer Candidate School and commission as a Second Lieutenant. We also wanted to get the heck out of Arkansas, so he used those facts to entice me. I gave in, and we went to see the recruiter, who said, "Oh, you're in luck! There is an Officer Selection recruiter in town right now." I should have known right then that this was meant to be. The Gunnery Sgt. took one look at Derick and said, "you know you'll have to cut your hair, right?" With that, Derick and I took our first steps in the direction of honor, courage and commitment that is the United States Marine Corps.

Situation (and again)
So here we are, nearly three years and a really long story later, embarking upon our first PCS and Derick's graduation from his favorite place in the world, The Basic School. I say that with sarcasm because if you don't know what the last six months of Derick's life and that of about 300 other new Second Lieutenants encompassed, I recommend you Google "The Basic School" just to get a tiny little taste. Now, for me, TBS was freakin' cake. Some wives in my position may not agree with me, especially those whose husbands have been in the Marines for a while, but after dealing with OCS (go ahead and Google that while you're at it) for ten months in Arkansas, it was nice to have my husband home most nights and weekends. I guess I should mention it was also nice to run around with my friends, hang out by the pool, and go to Panera Bread without any real occupational restrictions. Sure there were hard times, especially when I had supper cooked and he was nowhere in sight. But for the most part, I've loved every second of the past six months, and in a small way, I feel like when Derick accepted his commission, our lives, and mine individually, had just begun.

(Sorry babe, can't remember what comes next in an order)
So here we are on the edge of what some people would consider not a big deal, but to me, a huge opportunity. As a Marine wife (although currently unemployed, but NC, if you like Zumba fitness, I'm your girl, hint, hint) I hold a large amount of responsibility on my shoulders. I believe that much of our Marines' character is first influenced at home. I'm going out on a limb here, especially being a new Marine wife, but I think it's just a blatant fact to say if my Marine feels pressure at home, he'll be crap in the field and with his Marines. I've never been a perfect wife, and I've not always even been a good one, but my prayer is that I can always be encouraging and supportive in all that Derick does. Even if it's something I don't like, such as *ahem* deployment, I hope I can face it with dignity, pride, and strength because he is affected by my actions and words. My husband is and will be a darn good Marine, and because the way I handle situations directly affects him, I better be a darn good Marine wife!

Here's to new beginnings in all aspects!
"Decide what to be and go be it." --The Avett Brothers