She works hard for the money ...

By now, if you are a follower, you have realized that I must've gone back to work for Uncle Sam because you've not seen a post in a week!

Somebody get this reader a prize because you are RIGHT!

There is so much that goes in to making sure an Army unit is running properly. There is seriously so much to do and it ends up being frustrating at the end of the day when you think of 45 more things that you'll need to accomplish tomorrow.

Being a woman in today's Army is incredibly hard. It doesn't matter how hard you work to be as equal to the male Soldiers around you, you never will be. An old boyfriend told me that once. "The guys never take the girls seriously. Don't even try."

And that's sad. Sad on your part mister.

Not including BCT and AIT, I have attended nine Army schools in my six year career. Three of them I was honor graduate. All the rest, I was in the top percentile of the graduates. I set the record at one detachment for having the highest profile PT score of any other Soldier to come through.

I have received commendations and medals for my hard work as a leader of my troops.

MY Troops. That's what they are. Fourteen Soldiers who I put my neck out on the line for, stay at the office until 7 p.m. for and who I pray for every night.

I think being a female -- and a Virgo, I am a perfectionist. And being a female, I'm not afraid to ask for help. But I think that's sometimes where we go wrong. Perhaps if I were to take my care level down a notch, only do the bare minimum and drive on, maybe I'd be respected more?

Maybe if I wasn't a whistleblower on wrong doings or a person who didn't stand up for what she knows is right. Maybe if I didn't try so hard or remind people what they are doing is not in accordance with Army Standard. Maybe if I could convince my male counterparts that archaic stereotypes and gender should make no difference in the type leader I am ... or could be.

Maybe then I wouldn't be the "Drama Queen."




A very wise NCO, who is a very good friend has taught me two things:

1- Be a duck.

2- If the shoe fits.




Well, "quack, quack." I think it's time for some shoe shopping.

F-R-I-E-N-D ... I'm your buddy you can count on me ...

friendship -noun: 1. the state of being a friend; association as friends: to value a person's friendship. 2. a friendly relation or intimacy. 3. friendly feeling or dispostion.

When I was little, I had more imaginary friends than real ones. I think that's what happens when you grow up in a house in Pewee Valley, Ky., with more elderly people than children within a two-mile radius. I would talk to my imaginary friends while riding my bike, playing in the yard or while walking down the street. I'm sure the geritol population saw this as something we had in common ... talking to ourselves.

As I grew older, Girl Scouts and dance lessons helped me make some friends in the adolescent stages of life. One of my favorite songs I learned at Kavanaugh Day camp:
"F-R-I-E-N-D .... I'm your buddy you can count on me ....."  ..... well, if you know me at all you know my memory sucks. So I forget the rest.

But no matter how hard I tried (which may have been too hard), it seemed like I was always the target of bullies and people talking behind my back about my buck-teeth or silly laugh. I really had nobody I could count on. It seemed like every day my "friends" turned against me.

Puberty was the worse. That awkward stage where boys consume your thoughts and you realize with each middle school dance that you aren't going to go because there isn't a boy around who wants to buy you a slice of pizza and dance with you once the Five Man Electrical Band's "Signs" goes off, the lights dim low and Boyz II Men's "Til the End of the Road" bounces off the gym walls.

Then there was high school. Thank God for the SOHS Color Guard. Being forced to spend 40 or more hours per week crammed on busses, sleeping in classrooms or hotels for nearly every weekend of the school year. Even though we fought over boyfriends, bluejeans and makeup there was finally a group of GIRLS who were my friends.

That group gave me the confidence I needed after graduation to be myself. Who cares if I laughed funny? By college, people thought my laugh was great and they loved my stories. And I got more friends.

When I joined the Army my laugh brought us together as we sat in the woods pissed at the world and the decision we had made because we could've been at some bar drinking beer and eating wings instead of in the woods of Fort Jackson freezing our asses off, eating shitty MREs and drinking Victory Juice.

I am glad that I have many friends from all walks of life and different backgrounds. I have friends from elementary school who moved away and who thanks to Facebook, I'm able to see their children and their Families. I have friends from college who I see their bylines printed in papers across the country, photos on the internet after the Superbowl and who make a difference in the lives of our youth teaching music and arts.

Thanks to the Army I have friends all over the world - from Seattle to Portland, Afghanistan to Germany, Africa to Arizona who are there to listen because they have been there too. And I know that no matter where we are, they've got my back because I've got theirs.

And then I have my girls. My Guard girls who are the closest thing I have to sisters. Who after 15 years know that sourpatch kids will make me smile and who know it's okay to say "I love you and I don't know what to say." Girls who miss a stoplight and don't give up to drive to my house in the middle of the country to make me laugh my goofy laugh and remind me to not give up.

friendship  -noun: the gift of life from one person to another

Decisions

From what you put on in the morning to supersized fries or not, each day is filled with thousands of decisions. However minimal they may seem, those decisions work together in concert to shape the future. Think about it -- choosing Q'Doba over Subway may lead to a gassy afternoon in which your friends may not want to be around you. Who says those small decisions don't impact anything?

But the Q'Doba v. Subway debate is not the most pressing today. Today's ultimate decision is Family and I pray that the right decisions are made.

You see, I know two couples right now who are in the battle of their lives to keep their children.

In one case, a three-year-old boy who has only known one Mommy, but two Daddies is in limbo on whether or not the Ohio Supreme Court will allow him to stay with the Family he has known since birth, or be uprooted to live with a biological father with a criminal background who never made a court date three years ago when this ordeal began.

In the other case, six-day-old "E" has been happily eating, sleeping and pooping with my dear friend "B" since his birthmother "R" decided that an adoptive Family would be best for him. B nurses E, and his big brother hugs him and protects him and E is the sparkle in his dad, "D"'s eye.

But yesterday R made the decision that adoption was not best for E. She wants E back.

Now, I'm not a mother. I can't imagine what is going on in R's mind. She probably saw that beautiful bundle and had second thoughts. All the texts and calls to and from B, hearing E cooing in the background probably weighed heavily on her mind. She probably touches her belly and notices the void and it is likely very difficult for her.

But, what about E's other mommy? What about B? What about the weeks that she spent taking medicines and herbs to be able to produce the milk that nourishes E. What about the days she spent on the phone with R assuring her that she could birth this baby. What about the invitation to the ultrasound when B and D found out they were having another son? What about the birth when B was there to see E enter this world and kiss his perfect little cheeks and hold him tight and nurse him for the first time?

B blogged about the fear of this happening days before E was born. She said she wasn't going to get attached until she knew E was hers. She wasn't going to allow herself to love him until R allowed her to take him home. And that is what she did. B and D named E, took him home and began to love him. They began to parent.

But now, R wants to do that. She wants to parent. Even the social worker thinks that R isn't ready to be a parent. The solution? Take E to a foster home. Bounce him from birthmom, to adoptive Family, to foster Family to birthmom. All before he is how old?

I'm at a loss. I think you know where I stand, and it's not because I think that R or even E's biological dad shouldn't have rights. It's not because I think that in the case of the Vaughn's that Grayson's biological dad shouldn't have rights. I don't think that these people are horrible. They were faced with a decision. And they made it. That's where I am ...

What I am concerned about are these children who are too young to make decisions. It is up to the parents -- the adults in their life to decide what they wear, breastmilk or formula, birthfamily or adoptive.

My Dad always told me when you make a decision you stick with it. For the sake of these babies, I pray that R makes the right decision for baby E. I pray that his future, based from this decision, is bright.

Now. Time for Subway.

Ready for my license in design

After a successful four-day couch-sitting marathon, I think I am ready to apply for a license in interior design. I've watched enough HGTV to help pretty much any of my friends design their rooms on a dime.

Besides, it would likely be much easier to convince people to pick beige paint for a wall color over sending a Soldier in a wait status to a school. Right? I'm certain of it.

Don't get me wrong, I do love being a Soldier, but don't you think being an interior designer would be way fun? Think about it -- some cute carpenter with bulging biceps and a little tool belt who can build a floor to ceiling apothecary that holds everything in its place. Ooh, and some assistant who can bring me fabric swatches with a skinny vanilla latte without me even asking.

Yeah, that would be fun. Three more days before it's back to reality. I wonder if the school of design tests on Fridays?

Time for 2010 to move on

I think I can honestly say, without a doubt, that the year 2010 can certainly move on. I'm not even sure if I need for the holidays to even come. We can just skip it and start with a fresh 2011.

In this year, I've lost my dad, a great friend who was an outstanding Soldier and two unborn babies. I'm pretty sure that's enough for 365 days.

In June, I thought the scariest part of this year would be moving on without my dad. All the things he would miss -- birthdays, holidays and of course the birth of his grandchildren.

I'm sure you could imagine my hesitation and reservations when I found out Sept. 2 that I was pregnant for the third time (and I have no kids, so you do the math). Due to my complicated history with what most women would consider "the happiest time of life," I began my twice-weekly visits with the greatest ob/gyn in Frankfort.

I began shooting up with Lovenox, a blood thinner, every night, progesterone and taking extra folic acid. An extensive genetic test produced results that concluded a baby won't survive inside me without a combination of the drug cocktail.

After a couple scares, we finally saw the heartbeat Sept. 23 and I was ready to accept I would be a mom. But alas, nature -- God -- whatever had decided it's just not the time.

Sunday I went back to the doctor and the heartbeat was silent. Monday he had me come back in and in the place where a baby once was were numerous clots that were causing me so much pain I could barely stand without crying, sit without writhing in pain or sleep without waking to intense cramping and back spasms. Not to mention the extensive amount of blood I was losing.

My blood pressure was dropping (explained my lightheadedness for the last 24 hours), and due to the pain, my doctor suggested a D&C immediately. So, around the parking lot we went to the outpatient surgery where the medical teams at Frankfort Regional took exceptional care of me.

The anaesthesiologist was former SF out of Fort Bragg. We talked about our friends who have died (he saw my bracelet honoring Hunter -- he was wearing one for his buddy), and he showed me pictures of him with a full beard while he was in A-stan.

Then he explained the risks of the drugs he was about to push to me. I may throw up, it could go into my lungs and I'd get pneumonia. I was glad he didn't think Paula Deen was a crackwhore and he thought my choice of pre-surgery entertainment was soothing. I told him I didn't want any breathing tubes and he told me that wasn't my choice. I quivered and told him I'd cry. He said that's okay.

It took him about 5 minutes and two sticks to get in my IV. But I didn't hold it against him. All Army medics usually take at least 5 or 6 sticks. I don't know why, I have really nice veins, at least that's what the nurses always say. But finally, he stuck me, and gave me something that made me feel like my head weighed 8000 pounds.

Off we went, down the hall and into the bright room with all sorts of bells and whistles. And I thought I'd cry. Is this what Dad saw? I wondered if it was the last thing he remembered seeing. The bright circle lights above him, nurses covered with face masks and goggles. Not really soothing. They should've had some spa music or something playing don't you think? The last thing I said was I love you. I think I was telling it to my Dad. The nurses thought I was talking to them. Maybe I wanted to say it to both.

When I woke up I freaked out. I didn't remember where I was and then I realized I had lost another baby. Nice. I could feel that I was bleeding and I still couldn't move. "Oh hunny," my nurses said and they put a tissue on my chest. Strong work ladies, I can't move my arms yet. But my doctor came to my rescue, wiped my tears and through HIS tears, told me he would call me later. Oye.

I've been on the couch for the last 2.5 days. We went to dinner tonight with Kris' dad and stepmom. I ate the hell out of some Apple Streusel French Toast at Cracker Barrel. I thought breakfast (always my Dad's comfort food) would make it better. Eh, it went down good, but really didn't make much better.

Because in June, when I thought the scariest part of this year would be moving on without my dad, I was clearly wrong. The scariest part about 2010 is the fact that I might not be able to have a healthy pregnancy which would mean not being able to carry a baby to term.

I've never accepted failure well and that's kinda the ultimate failure for any woman -- not being able to reproduce.

So, that's the scariest part of 2010 and I have concluded that it is indeed, time for 2010 to move on.

And another one bites the dust ...

I've been against blogging pretty much since the day that I learned that it existed.

Not really sure why. I guess I'm just an oldie who loves the smell of newsprint or magazines. I like to hold in my hand what I'm reading and it has taken me probably four or five years to realize that not everyone likes to hold what they are reading.

The journalist in me is also a little queazy because if I miss a punctuation mark, or spell a word incorrectly, it will be here for all to see until one of my copyediting friends corrects me. Oh drat. As if I'm not worried enough during the day.

Enough about that.

What is this blog? Well, it's my sounding board. A place for me to tell the tales of this PA Drama Queen for all to see. (Perhaps one day I will disclose where the nickname comes from.)

So, this is my first post, and I'm about to write another. Only because I feel that writing is my therapy and it's a way for me to express myself. It allows me to put it all out there in one swift click of a button and then rather than me telling 20598693 people about it, they can just read it.

So here it is, the tales of a PA Drama Queen. Enjoy, and I do hope you come back.