What's That? By Golly, It's a Spade!

I try to keep my posts light. I think focusing on the humorous side of parenting really keeps me sane. We as moms try really hard to stay PC, never telling another mom that a choice she’s made is wrong. This is wise and kind. For the most part, we are all doing the best we can with a pure motivation of love for our kids. The pressure is so hard to “get it right” that we don’t need our own fears of inadequacy voiced by another person. There are a few things, though, that I think should be a no-brainer and yet I see it so much that I just have to comment.

The other night I went to see a movie (one that is clearly not for children) and there were four young boys sitting behind me. The youngest looked to be about four or five, the oldest maybe ten. Every time there was a violent or sexual act on the screen I cringed, wondering what must be going through those little minds. So, I’m just going to say what I believe. Children should not be watching violent and sexual images.

I believe strongly that “You Are What You Eat.” If you want a healthy body, you need to fill it with good things. If you want a healthy mind and spirit, likewise. There are images I don’t think adults should expose themselves to, not to mention our children.

What really disturbs me is the trend in society as a whole to believe that all images and subject matters are appropriate for children of all ages. Sex Ed for kindergartners? Why? Oral sex education for 5th graders? Madness. (Note: These programs were being discussed for public schools in Montana). If we all agree that a fourteen year old shouldn’t be having sex, then why on earth would anyone hand that child a condom? The argument that “they’re going to do it anyway, so let’s make sure it’s safe” is akin to “mass murderers can’t help themselves, so we should just make sure they’re properly educated.” It is the natural tendency of my toddler to want to run out into the parking lot unattended or eat junk food all day, to scream and throw himself in the floor when he doesn’t get his way (a behavior he has to LEARN to control) but I train him otherwise because, as his parent, I know what’s best for him. Does he still ask for cookies for dinner and throw tantrums? YES! But I don't give up on training him and just try to teach him "safe" ways pitch a fit. Do we not, then, train our teenagers in the same manner because it might be hard? I surely hope that's not the case.

Our children get to retain their youth and innocence for so short a time. What’s the rush? Why do we need to expose them to the harsh realities of adulthood before they’ve really had time to enjoy being children? If you could go back to believing the store running out of your favorite flavor of ice cream is the world’s greatest tragedy, wouldn’t you do it?

So much of parenting can feel like guesswork, but when it comes to whether or not my child should see someone murdered or violently attacked, I don’t have to hesitate. I know we live in a culture of Go Along to Get Along, but every now and again I like to call a spade a…well, you know.

Straight Outta Sodor...

We took the boys to Day Out With Thomas today at the B&O Railroad Museum in Baltimore. It’s always a great day for little train lovers. They have train tables set up for the kids to play with, balloons, temporary tattoos, moon bounces, train rides and lots of junk food. Needless to say it’s a young boy’s ideal day. The boys spent a little time playing at the train tables until it was time for us to load up for our train ride.

The main attraction, a life-size Thomas the Tank Engine, is hooked up to a line of passenger cars and the kids get to take a ride with him. It was the highlight of my day when Bear saw Thomas for the first time. His face lit up and he screamed like William Wallace going into battle. Strangely enough the train ride is my least favorite part of the day. The expectations built from the first glance of Thomas makes the end result rather anti-climactic. Sensing a possible let-down, the parents tried admirably to get the crowd excited about a 10 mile-an-hour train ride into the depths of inner city Baltimore. No small feat. Even more entertaining was listening to the parents try to come up with creative answers to their little ones’ questions: Mommy, why are there plastic bags in the trees? Mommy, what are those colorful words on the side of the building? Mommy, why is that lady lying so still at the bottom of the bridge? Honestly, after a solid mile of graffiti-covered landscape I was glad the Bug is only just starting to read…and doesn’t know the significance of a swastika. At the end of the train ride, though, my boys were still in awe of their “ride with Thomas.” I suspect that once we take them to Disney World they’ll no longer fall for trying to pass the mildly diverting train ride off as something fun and exciting.

Events like these also provide me with an opportunity to watch people in public. Here I get wonderful ideas on what to do on outings with kids…and what NOT to do. I’m sure I display the latter on my fair share of occasions, but I made some classic observations today and felt it my duty to pass them along. In regards to the Gift Shop at this event, I strongly recommend you do NOT buy the train whistles they sell. They’re very cute, but it’s a purchase you will regret almost the instant the transaction is complete (or at the very least as soon as you get in your car with your little one and his noisemaker). Secondly (and I can’t stress the importance of this enough), don’t take your kids into the gift shop with you. While your spouse or a grandparent watches them jump themselves into giddy oblivion in the moon bounces, you sneak away to browse and perhaps pick up a trinket or two to commemorate the day. Then, instead of having to carry your angel out of the shop screaming and flailing, you get to be the wonderful mommy who magically appears with a few well chosen treats.

Now, to be honest, I have yet to figure out how to end any fun activity without tears. No matter how long we’ve stayed or how much fun we’ve had my four-year-old always cries like we’ve sentenced him to years of manual labor. Soon after the tears, though, comes the hush of children sleeping in the back seat, the sweet sound of a successful day.

Let's Do the Time Warp Again...

My day is about three hours too short. Before I had kids I managed to accomplish all sorts of things, and still got a full night’s sleep (even the occasional nap). Why should things take so much time, you ask. I asked the same question Before I Had Kids (BIHK). Here’s the answer: If you ask an adult to cross the room, he could do so in a matter of seconds. If you ask a child to cross that same room, he’s first going to ask you why (and since he probably won’t move until your response becomes ‘Because I Said So’, you may as well start out with this one). When he finally does start to move he’ll get about halfway across the room before he turns back because he’s decided that he wants to cross the room backwards and has to start over to get it right. Then he’ll want to cross again as a kangaroo. A frog. A snake. This describes any given activity with a child.

Like most people, each of our days begins with a list of things to be done. This list is ordered by priority and divided into what can be done with the kids awake and what needs to be done while they sleep. But a day with children is never predictable and this list suffers many modifications and sadly most things get pushed to the next day when you swear you’ll make the time to get it done. Most days I have to choose between taking a nap and taking a shower. And even though I have jelly in my hair I choose the nap more often than not. Little things suffer neglect. Who has time to replace the batteries in the remote or check the mail (we’re expecting our mail carrier to vandalize our house any day now).

I also used to wonder BIHK why parents of small children were always late to everything. Now, I pride myself on the fact that I’m nearly on time more often than not (at least within the margin of error), but leaving the house in a timely manner takes the timing and precision of a military operation. While the kids are sleeping or otherwise occupied, I gather all supplies necessary (diapers, snacks) for our trip and put them by the door. Way ahead of the game, right? Not so fast. Now begins the Circus of Getting Out the Door. My boys often remind me of the Pac-Man ghosts. They bounce around until they hit an opening and then go through it. Therefore, I spend a maddening amount of time going after one and then the other (and then the first one again because he left my grasp to go bouncing around the room). Then the baby starts screaming because he doesn’t like the car seat and the other two begin to fight because they both want to be the one to open the door. Once we’re out the door (and I’m already tired) my task then changes to keeping them on path toward the car without being distracted by rocks and dirt (I suppose this is their version of cheesecake and diamonds; things I personally cannot resist). So the next time you see a mommy arrive at an event with children in tow with everyone reasonably dressed and breathing, give her a standing ovation. She certainly deserves it.

Meatloaf Has A Very Nice Pair

Bigfoot. The top of Mt. Everest. A member of the Osmond family with cavities. Dirty looks while nursing. All things I had never seen before and never expected to see. I sat down at Chick-Fil-A the other night about to enjoy the bliss of Food I Didn’t Cook when it happened. I set the big boys up with their nuggets and fries and then began to give the baby his dinner. That’s when I spotted it. A man and woman in a booth across from us exchanged a horrified look and rolled their eyes in my direction. Understandable since I was naked from the waist up and had shouted “It’s MILKING time” just before I latched my little one on.

Wait a second. That’s not what happened. I was seated in the corner of the booth with an ample-sized cloth (aptly named The Hooter Hider) draped over my body. I was practically dressed to go mountain climbing in Tibet. Was the objection that somehow the cloth would fly off, exposing my chest? Or perhaps that another human was attached and eating? I’m far from being a crunchy granola type but I find myself confused as to why anyone could object to the most natural process a human can experience. Do you ask pregnant women to hide their bellies because it announces to the world that she’s had sex? I suppose that’s what we used to do. Our ancestors had to go in “confinement” once their pregnant bellies became obvious and it wasn’t until Lucille Ball in the 1960’s that a pregnant belly could be shown on television. I just thought that here, FIFTY years later, no one would look askance at a woman nursing her child. I was wrong.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened either. I got some uncomfortable glances at the mall once when I had the audacity to sit in the food court with my family instead of finding a dark hole somewhere to nurse like I need to be ashamed of myself. This negativity is doubly ironic at the mall when everywhere you look is a young lady either flashing more flesh than fabric or squeezed into a garment clearly meant for someone a good deal smaller than she. Where is the outrage? Where are the long-suffering sighs and sideways glances? What is the obsession with boobs that produce milk?

Any nursing mom will tell you how lonely the business of feeding your little one can be. Too many times I have been enjoying the company of other adults (a luxury those of you without children cannot fully appreciate) when the time came for my infant to eat. Then, like a disciplined child, I gather my blanket and find somewhere secluded to sit for the better part of an hour, continually glancing at the clock and listening wistfully to the merriment taking place without me. Therefore, whenever I get the chance to nurse AND be a part of the action, I never pass it up. If you must roll your eyes at me when I do so, so be it. But, be advised, I’m not moved by your discomfort. I will not scurry away to make you more comfortable. To quote the movie Notting Hill, they’re just boobs. Every second person in the world has them. More actually. Meatloaf has a very nice pair.

The Facts of Life

The grandparents have gone home and Daddy has gone back to work. The adventure of having three boys under four now begins. The door closes on my husband (after he gives me a look that says simultaneously ‘good luck’ and ‘this may be the last time I see you alive’). Oddly enough, though there are now more people in my house, I feel more lonely being by myself with my boys than before. Up to this point I had back up. If I couldn’t break free to kiss away some tears or deliver a sippy cup of milk to a parched toddler, there was always someone nearby who could do the job. Now it’s all up to me. From experience I know that when multiple babies are crying, someone has to be the second one (or now the third) to have his needs addressed. Luckily, the feeling of loneliness is fleeting. The kids remind me all too quickly that there is work to be done. Once I get back into the routine of feeding times and refereeing round after round of who gets to play with the new Spider-Man toy, there’s no time for self-pity.

The new kid in town is adjusting just fine to life on The Outside, miraculously sleeping through all the noise in the house like a champ. He is behaving like a normal baby, making his stay in the NICU a distant memory. The one thing we have to remind us of his early issues is his daily treatment of an asthma medication. We pop a little turtle mask on his face three times a day and hook him up to a nebulizer (which my husband and I flat out refuse to stop calling a deneuralizer). My other boys have pretty much accepted his existence. He’s only once been hit in the head with a flying object, but given how often things get thrown in this house that is nothing short of a miracle.

My next challenge will be ridding myself of extraneous bulges, not an easy task when sleep deprivation has me craving carbs like a heroin addict. And I currently have an obsession with Golden Oreos that may only be curable by death. My husband insists that I look just fine, but I’m not buying it. I’ve told him I feel like Daphne from Frasier. Niles was so enamored with her that he never noticed that she gained a hundred pounds. My husband wasn’t exactly thrilled about being compared with Niles Crane.

Sometimes I frankly miss being pregnant. When you’re pregnant, an extra thirty pounds is no big deal. You have that big, round belly announcing to world, “So what if I’m carrying extra weight. I’m creating LIFE here!” No one looks at a pregnant woman and says, “Maybe you should put down the cake, ma’am.” First of all, never try to take cake from a pregnant woman and second, the belly gives you permission to enjoy cake without frowning glances. In fact, people often encourage it. The minute the baby is born, however, you no longer enjoy guilt free eating. And if you don’t actually have the baby in your arms, you look like just another overweight American, too lazy to put down the Ring Dings and step on a treadmill. Carrying a few extra pounds wouldn’t be so terrible if I had enough expendable income to have a full, flattering wardrobe in every size I may need before losing the weight. Alas, being far too cheap to shop in multiple sizes, I’ve opted to wear only what I currently own. However, you can only make yoga apparel look fashionable so long before people begin to wonder if you actually know how to operate a zipper.

Frustratingly, I know that if I had the time to make it to the gym every day, I’d be back in my regular clothes in no time. Having little humans to care for, however, makes the job a bit more difficult. Right now, any extra energy I have goes toward merely trying to stay awake long enough to have a grown-up conversation with my husband. I remind myself that the only reason the likes of Heidi Klum and Jessica Alba get thin so quickly is because they have staff. As a mere mortal, I’ll have to wait until more free time materializes (or I win the lottery, whichever comes first). In the meantime, I’ll just have to settle for starting a 12-step program to rid myself of that Oreo habit.

Disaster Flick

As the nurses took my baby boy to the nursery for his first bath, we looked out the window to the snow beyond and remembered after all the excitement of the baby that we were in the middle of a snow emergency. Snowmageddon. Howling winds blew the freezing snow into drifts several feet tall. The streets were deserted as everyone was trapped inside. When my nurse returned, I remembered I hadn't eaten for over eight hours. The nurse told us food in the hospital was scarce since supply trucks hadn't been able to get in or out for over 24 hours. She'd see what she could do. There might be some sandwiches left in the nurses' lounge. I'll take what I can get, I told her over the rumbling of my empty stomach. She returned with one of the sandwich plates the cafeteria had sent up for employees unable to leave. I was supremely grateful. I offered to split the sandwich and chips with my husband, but he declined. Good thing, because I devoured the food and was still a little hungry afterward. He took a trip to the vending machine for his meal: Doritos and peanut M&Ms.

There was a giddy camaraderie amongst the patients and staff common to those who find themselves thrown together in extraordinary circumstances. Our nurse and doctor had already been in the hospital for two days with no hope of going home for at least another 24 hours. Suddenly we felt as though we'd been cast in a disaster flick with a title like BLIZZARD! or AVALANCHE! A couple finds themselves stranded at a hospital as the snow storm rages. Will they survive?

We were informed that we would have to spend the night in our Labor & Delivery room since none of the ladies who were to be discharged that day could actually leave. No biggie, the Labor & Delivery rooms are larger (and the fold out couch much more accommodating for a tall husband). The biggest question of the day, however, was: When will I ever get my milkshake and bacon cheeseburger? Tragically, not for several days, it turned out. There was no getting in or out of the hospital for at least another day. The cafeteria resumed sending out trays to patients, but could only send out a smaller amount of food than usual. Though it wasn’t the grand spread I’d hoped for, the eggs and sausage link on my first breakfast tray were perfectly lovely for someone who felt like she’d just spent the previous day lumberjacking. The trays, however, grew smaller and smaller as the days went on. My last breakfast at the hospital was one small pancake and a cup of milk. And the vending machine my husband used for every meal had taken on a post-Apocalyptic form: barren, with one small bag of trail mix dangling uselessly from the hook.

Once we finally found our way over to the maternity ward we learned that the supply problem wasn’t limited to food. The ward was running low on all sorts of basic necessities. My nurse handed me a few pairs of highly fashionable disposable mesh underwear and told me to hold on them as they were the last few pairs to be had. I began to wonder only partly in jest if I should start hoarding supplies to trade with other women in the ward: a box of bendy straws in exchange for a few packets of sugar or a box of tissues to exchange for some lime Jell-O. Since our room was the closest to the ward’s kitchen, we could have wielded great power over our fellow in-mates with some well-chosen contraband. Alas, our focus was elsewhere.

A few hours after our new prince was born we discovered that he was struggling to breathe and needed to be admitted to the NICU. When the woman I recognized as a nurse practitioner from the NICU walked in looking grave my heart sank. The problem-free hopes I’d had for delivery were dashed. So the dwindling food supply was quickly forgotten as we spent most of our stay by the side of our little one, now hooked up to an alarming number of tubes and wires.

We were discharged from the hospital with heavy hearts. Our homecoming celebration would have to wait. My husband pulled the car to the front of the hospital as I waited in my wheelchair. There were other mommies around me, carrying their newborns home with them and I started to cry. With one backward glance, I felt the sting of loneliness at leaving behind the tiny being who had been with me since the moment his existence began. Not only was he not physically with me, I’d have to wait who knew how long before I could actually hold him in my arms again. We drove home through the snow-covered streets, something we’d end up doing countless times before we were finally able to bring our little boy home.

How to Have a Baby in a Blizzard: A Step-By-Step Guide

So, it turns out the watched pot can boil after all, though perhaps not exactly at the most ideal time. When I woke up Saturday morning I really thought there was no way I was going to be having a baby that day. I felt great. No contractions all night, so I’d had a good night’s rest. I took a shower, ate breakfast and watched the snow come down, preparing to stay inside all day (and perhaps watch Brad shovel several feet of snow from the comfort of my heated home). After lunch Brad took the boys outside to play for a bit. I stepped outside to snap some quick pictures before scurrying back indoors. The contractions began shortly after that, but I still wasn’t alarmed. I decided to take a nap while the boys slept. The contractions, however, wouldn’t allow it. Every ten minutes or so I would wake up to another painful tightening in my belly. After nearly an hour of this I gave up and came downstairs. My husband urged me to call the doctor. Why, I’d asked, since I wasn’t in labor and there was a blizzard taking place outside. At best, they’d laugh at me and tell me to drink water and lay on my side. He insisted and I sighed, a longsuffering sigh. Fine.

I called my doctor and told her the situation, fully prepared to share a chuckle with her over my husband’s senseless worrying. Men, we’d say, and roll our eyes. Not so. “Can you get in?” she asked. Sure, I thought. It’s only three feet of snow. I’ll hitch up the dogs and be there in a blink. “Just call an ambulance,” she says. Great. I hang up and tell my husband the news. He launches into a flurry of activity, gathering supplies like we will, in fact, be escorted by Saint Bernard to Howard County General. I feel pretty silly. Here I am, calling an ambulance to take me to the hospital where they’d most likely keep me for a day and send me home, still pregnant. I didn’t want to waste their time (or taxpayer money) on a false alarm.

As I sat on the couch waiting for the paramedics to come, however, the contractions that were once 10 minutes apart closed the gap to 7. Before I knew it, four strapping young men in handsome EMT uniforms and big manly boots came stomping through my door (maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all). Contractions every five minutes now. Hmmm. They told me to relax while we all waited for the snow plow to come make a path for the rescue vehicles to come through. These brave lads had walked through the snow to be by my side so that I didn’t deliver a baby in my living room unassisted. How gallant! They even asked for towels so they didn’t track snow in my house. Swoon.

Once the snow plows came through, they whisked me away to the hospital. The streets were deserted but for a few brave SUVs and one confused little PT Cruiser. The roads had barely been plowed and we rumbled most of the way to the hospital. Contractions every three minutes, gentlemen. We zipped into the emergency room where the receptionist informed us that I had to be evaluated by the triage nurse before they could take me upstairs. They said, “Sure thing,” and whizzed past her, whispering in my ear that they had no intention of stopping until they deposited me safely in the arms of a labor and delivery nurse. I owe these guys some baked goods, at least.

I said a tearful goodbye to the EMTs and got into my gown, ready to meet my son. As the nurses cranked up the warmer and laid out all the necessary gear I started to get excited. In a short time I would finally meet the little man who partied nonstop in my belly. I’d get to see his face and hold him in my arms. Smell that glorious, freshly-born smell. I found myself giggling, like I’d never done this before. The doctor pronounced me ready to push and though the epidural had worn off (seriously?) and the contraction pain was blinding, I knew that in a few short moments I would meet someone who would hold my heart forever. Pain is temporary. Love is forever.

Before I knew it a slimy, wiggly bundle was placed on my chest and I laughed out loud. The joy was too much to contain. They cleaned him up, pronounced him to be a giant among infants and gave him back to me. The new love of my life didn’t exactly pick the easiest time to arrive, but I have to admire his flare and style. What an entrance! I can only wonder what a lifetime with him will bring. Welcome to the world, my beautiful son.

The Waiting Game

Have you ever felt like a watched pot? You think you're ready to boil, everyone around you thinks you're ready to boil, but for whatever reason...no action. I'm starting to feel like a bomb. Everyone eyes me nervously, gasping at every cringe on my face. Every bubble of gas and muscle spasm is greeted with expecting glances and questioning stares. Is this it? Does she need to go the hospital? Do we need to boil water and rip towels into strips like they do on TV? There is even a bet taking place on when I will pop. While I suppose all this attention should be flattering, it's enough to make even the most patient of people a little irritable - not to mention what it does to a woman jacked up on hormones, filled to her eyeballs with a kicking baby, and plagued with heartburn so bad no amount of Tums or Mylanta can provide relief. To say the least I'm a bit edgy. It's really too bad that I have to wait until I'm in labor to get medicinal assistance. It would be nice to spend this time of waiting, anxiety and painful contractions that never seem to go anywhere in a state of loopy bliss.

I'm four centimeters dilated and having contractions every twenty minutes or so. It shouldn't be long now. One would think. However, this has been going on for a few weeks now. After giving birth several times before, this process should move along a little more quickly. Alas, not so. Waiting isn't so very difficult. There's always something to do in a busy house with toddlers and the days pass quickly enough.

This situation is not without its own serving of drama, though. Maryland is expecting its biggest snow in nearly a hundred years this coming weekend. The forecast is calling for FEET of snow (possibly close to 3). So, if I go into labor in the next day or so, there will be the added adventure of digging out of a mountain of snow to make it to the hospital. No biggie, I shrug. We have an SUV. All is not lost. And on the bright side, having a baby in a blizzard will be an entertaining story to tell. However, I have been without sugar and junk food for nearly ten weeks (I have big babies). I have been fantasizing for some time now about the post-delivery meal: A bacon cheeseburger and (more importantly) a cookies and cream milkshake from Chick-Fil-A. Should I go into labor tomorrow, in the midst of the blizzard, these establishments will most likely be closed, crushing the dietary dreams of a woman too long deprived of processed foods. If I go into labor on Sunday, the roads may be cleared, but Chick-Fil-A will still be closed, mocking me.

So, I wait, like everyone else, wondering when the gas bubbles will give way to active labor. Anticipating the Big Event with bated breath and the thrill of the unknown. I tell myself that this time (even with its constipation and hemmorhoids) is actually the easy part. The hard part will come AFTER the baby is born and I have to figure out how to care for three boys at once. They'll outnumber me. Someone (I know from experience) will always be crying. And just as a bonus in the first three months, I get to do all of this on five or less broken hours of sleep a night. Did I mention that I also homeschool? Nevertheless, I still find myself excited about my new arrival. I can't wait to see his little face and hold him in my arms. And, sigh, the new baby smell. Nothing beats that. So, even though I know it will be hard I find myself excited for the challenge. Within the deafening noise there is joy and laughter. For every day that I think I'm not qualified for this job, there are moments that take my breath away: when The Bug snuggles next to me and says, "I love you, Mommy" or when The Bear comes to me and says "Kiss." These moments make everything else worthwhile. Even being watched liked the proverbial pot.

Why Am I Here?

I ask myself that question all too often. Especially on days when it seems everyone in the house is screaming and no one can be made happy no matter what I do. On those days I live for naptimes so I can bask in the quiet. Thankfully, that's not every day. More often than not there is a lot of laughter from my boys and every day they seem to do something new. And if I weren't here at home with them I'd miss out on a lot of treasures, like how The Bug (my nearly four-year-old) trapped The Bear (my nearly two-year-old) under a toy bucket and sat on top of it or how The Bear signifies he's done with a meal by crumbling his food into microscopic pieces and tossing them to the floor. I think often of how I went into Motherhood willingly (rose-colored glasses firmly in place). I think with a bit of nostalgia (and a touch of mockery of my younger self) of how I would fold and refold baby clothes, dreaming of how perfect being a Mommy would be. In my daydreams, Mommy would spend her days watching her angelic infant sleep and gaze lovingly at him while he cooed at his vast menagerie of pastel-colored stuffed animals. The reality was a bit different however, as my precious bundle cried ALL THE TIME. He did offer a fair amount of predictibility for his crying fits: if his eyes were open, he was crying. And the stuffed animals fell victim to disinterest and neglect. Here I am almost four years later and Motherhood continues to be other than what I expected. It never occured to me that I would have to say "Don't sit on your brother's head" more often than a person ought. Or that I would know the instant I locked eyes with each of my boys that they would have my heart forever.

But why am I HERE? Why have I decided to share with you good people the daily travails of my life (and the staggering amount of poop I see in a single day)? Confession is good for the soul, they say. They also say misery loves company, so perhaps I'm simply aiming to share my burdens with a sympathetic ear. For what mom sees another mom struggling with cranky toddlers in a grocery store and doesn't think, simultaneously, "I've been there" and "Man, I'm glad that's not me today." In this blog, The General, will talk of her troops, keeping the living quarters clean, how we dodge bullets and put out fires, and what it takes to survive in the thick of the fight. It isn't always pretty, but the challenge is the food of life.