Centrality of being a military dependent??

My dear friend Diana wrote a post about being a military brat. She titled it using the word "centrality" and that got me thinking.

Therefore, being the good teacher that I am, I looked up the definition. Centrality means, "vital, critical or important position." I think it all depends on how you look at the word. Is it vital for our world that we play this role? Is it vital that people understand the role we play? Is it vital for us that we are this role?

For me, I think it was vital that I play that role. I was a military dependent (can't use the word brat - don't like it) for 21 years. I loathed it. I loved it. I rebelled against it. I embraced with everything I had. I was a typical child. I both loved the adventures and luxuries it gave us and despised the label it gave me.

I couldn't be more grateful for the experiences.

For me, the problem has been that people do not understand the inherent feeling of restlessness and longing for change that has permeated my way of life.

I find it funny and ironic. I work with girls, helping them to break the box of "Girl World" because I completely understand what it is like to be both inside and outside of the box. Had I not had the opportunity to be all the different roles I played (because I had the chance to move and recreate) I couldn't do what I do with the empathy and sympathy that I have.

I also wrote about my experience here.

For that reason alone I am eternally grateful.

I have had to remind my father that I am grateful. While I agree that as military families we make sacrifices that many people do not understand or cannot relate I am most appreciative of one of the greatest sacrifices my father made for me. He understood, not to the extent he does now, the life-long impact (both good & bad) his career has on me.

When we moved to Germany, my junior year, I had already been to two different high schools on two different continents. When 3rd AF closed at the end of my junior year my father had an opportunity to be SJA at Mildenhall. Although my father never wanted to be general and had taken the SJA spots that would be best for our family, this was a great position. I remember hearing my father and his then wife talking about this job. . .

I had made up my mind that we were not going to Mildenhall and decided the next day I would tell him. In all of my 17 year old glory I walked into his dressing room. I will NEVER forget the scene. He was sitting on a chair polishing his boots. He was using a wooden brush, a scene I had seen him do hundreds of times. I told him my feelings on the matter of moving to England and I will never forget his response. (Keep in mind that he hardly ever raised his voice and never, ever got in my face.) The wooden brush hit the wooden floors and in a flash he was up and in my face. He said, "you will move when I tell you to move and where I tell you to move." End of conversation. Check.

However, that was not the end of the story. My father got it. The centrality of his life was being a father. He saw that for me, one of the important position of my life was being his daughter - a military child. It was who I was. It was how I was defined. He gave me the opportunity, for this one year, to perhaps still be outside the box but no longer the outsider. He declined the SJA job in England and was deputy SJA USAFE until he took his final job stateside. I never understood, until I could reflect upon this utterly selfless act, how much this one decision shaped and gave me such a framework for the work I do now.

It allowed me to relate as both the outsider and finally an insider. Something I am not sure I would have had in my teenage years. Something that gives me a unique perspective to work with high school girls.

I am defined as many things: wife, mother, teacher, confidant. All true. All great roles. But for me, one of the greatest things that defines me and explains who I am and why I do what I do because I had the opportunity to be my father's daughter.

Eye doctor, puff this!

There are things I don't like doing: cleaning the bathrooms, riding roller coasters, to name two. However, I would rather have another c-section, abdominal surgery than go to the eye doctor. I draw the line, however, at having a NG tube removed or the kidney stones (another day, another nightmare, another post).

I needed to go to the eye doctor as it had been two years, my 12 month prescription of contacts was a bit past its prime and I was certain I needed an update! The problem, though, is that I hate going to the eye doctor. I cannot.do. the puff test. Who cares if I have glaucoma? I mean, yes it is terrible, but I am willing to take my chances.

The last time I was at the eye doctor, preparing myself for the puff test - crying, cursing and begging later we just skipped that part. Well and good.

However, I decided in my infinite wisdom that I would find a new eye doctor one closer to my house. It was no small feat trying to find a place that took my insurance. Finally, I scored. Dr. G. was the lucky winner. After going round and round about my insurance or lack their of (apparently my name never got changed after I married 7 years ago) we had an appointment set. I decided at that time to explain that I would not be doing the puff test. Nice receptionist said she would tell the doctor. Nice receptionist called back and said that was fine, as long I as I would allow them to dilate my eyes. Nope. I told, now less than nice receptionist, that I would not be doing that either. We hung up. She called back. No go. The doctor has some type of ethical issue and won't see me if I won't do those things. Well, umph.

I can wear these contacts for another year OR as my husband just suggested go back to the old place. The ideas this man has. . .

Never the one to give up on making sure I have contacts at my disposal I made one more phone call. However, this time I volunteered no information.

I might mention that my husband had recently been to the eye doctor (his first appointment in over 20 years! & last) and they had a new device that takes a picture of your eye BUT it is really freaky and costs extra. When he said it was freaky, that was good enough for me. Not.going.to.happen.

10:30 am, this past Monday, I met my Waterloo. I filled-out the forms. Declined the dilation. Check. Declined the freaky picture thing. Check. The nice technician took me back and asked how I was. Don't ask if you don't want to know. I told her about my issue to puff.

Well, is that all it took? The nice lady said, "we don't do that here." I was amazed. She said that the doctor had another machine and she would just look in my eye. All the choirs of angels sang together!!! Whoo-hoo.

R-E-L-I-E-F!

The doctor came in. We talked, she said the technician had told her I was scared and that everything was fine. We wouldn't be doing anything like that. Great.

Eyes checked. Subscription checked. We are good.

Then it happened. The doctor, quick as fire, comes up next to me with an eyedropper (what was she thinking) and says just to lean back. As if.

I ask her what she is doing and she says that she has numbing drops. Cue the tears, heavy breathing and hand on chest. She stands there. Watching.

A good 30 seconds later I have a moment of clarity. Why do you need to numb my eye. She replied, "I am going to use that probe . . ." I haven't a clue what she said next b/c I heard: eye, numb, probe. Nuff said.

Not.friggin'.happening.

After about 2 or 20 minutes of crying she said, "I will just markdown declined by patient." I said, "you do that."

I have new contacts. At the end of the day, that's all that matters.

Funny things Fin shared over Christmas

One of the traditions we have is that at Thanksgiving & Christmas, after dinner, we share/answer different questions/thoughts. Finley's question was: "We are fortunate. What would you give to a less fortunate child during this season of giving?" Finley answered, "Pierce." Her brother. Great.

We read the traditional Christmas Story, every year. This year, when I got to the part where they laid Jesus in the manger, I asked Finley what was in the manger and she said, "the partridge." Great. We are getting our Christmas stories mixed.

It is probably no coincidence that Baby Jesus is MIA from the veggie-tale nativity scene. I'm just saying. We have three nativities but this particular one seems to always be a player or two short.