Austria...the land of no Kangaroos

Salzburg, Austria.
You may be asking yourself, 'what inspired those two to choose Salzburg as a destination?' Or maybe you're not saying that at all.
But here's the reasoning behind our decision...
 Rick Steves. I know you already could tell the two of us are Rick Steves fans. Just look at us. We scream RICK! There we were tuning into his blu ray (Don't judge, YES, we purchase his tv shows.)
While Rick was whisking us away to To "Beautiful Baroque Salzburg!" ...  There we sat on our hideious hammie-down sofa, me in my infamous bo duke tee, paired with my favorite blue flannel jammie bottoms (the ones with the cresent moons on them). Mike was in his Star Wars loungies and matching tee.

There was Rick, in all his nerd glory standing in a fortress, talking about the endless Mozart concerts. (The Impromtu on the street concerts AND fancy pants ones in a concert halls.)

I looked over at my husband and said "Wow. That looks pretty. We should go."
He looked at me and said "Yeah. We should!"
Now, typically "yeah we should" means..."we'll get around to it someday..."
But when the episode was finished Mike got up and got our big yellow map book of Europe.
He said "Ya know, it's not THAT far from us."
I said "What isn't that far from us?"
He said "Salzburg."
I said "You know, I read that book (On Hitler's Mountain by Irmgard Hunt.) and her dad took her mom  on romantic get-a-ways to Salzburg."
He said "I remember you saying that."

Next thing I know, there our two happy selves are at the Bahnhof buying two train tickets whisking us away to Salzburg.
Everyone but everyone tells you travelling by train in Europe is simple, easy, and agreeable.
And guess what? Those people do not lie.  It was thoughtless travel. And before we knew it, there we were climbing off the train in Salzburg.
I have to preface this story with saying....our first impression of Austria was NOT that of a magical fairy land that dances to the tune of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. In fact, it looks more like a war torn former soviet town. Fresh off the train, the bahnhof area does not seem welcoming, and the rundown dirty cable cars look...like you need to hang tight to your euros.

We hop on the #2 bus (Perfect name for it. It smelled. It looked like you could get Botulism,  Leptospirosis, or maybe Trichinosis, just from standing ON it.)
Mike says to the driver: Sprechen Sie Englisch?
The Driver nods and says: Ja, a little. Sure.
Mike says: Will this bus go to the Mercure hotel?
The Driver says: Ja, sure. It goes to deer. Maybe...it is stop...(he counts on his fingers) Seben?
Mike says: Danke!

We count off the stops but at stop 6 NOT 7 the driver yells back "Hello? Dis one! Dis one is dee stops for dee hotel, ja? Ok?"
I yell back "Vielen Dank!!!" as we hop off the bus.

We found this same attitude everywhere we went. So, the bahnhof looks like there are children to be sponsored nearby and Sally Stuthers is going to hop out of the side hatch and ask you to spare a dime for them... But first looks can be deceiving. Austrians are not only nice but HELPFUL, and turns out Salzburg is beautiful, once you get past the grit.

We decided a night walk to old town would be perfect, that and we were hungry. Salzburg was beautiful at night. No shops were open but people were out milling about, despite the cold air coming off the Salzach River.
We were happy to get back to our hotel room and into our warm beds. Yes, we were twin bedding it June and Ward Clever style.

The next morning we got an early start to cram pack in as much Mozart as possible. After all, the town is famous because of him. He was born here, and he is still a major Rockstar. You can't walk without tripping over something Amadeus. He's like their Elvis...without the fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.

We went to his Geburtshaus (Birth house) and his Residence. If you are ever in Salzburg...skip the Residence, go for the Geburtshaus. It's big, it's yellow and it has a HUGE sign that says "Mozart's Geburtshaus" You can't miss it.  We liked his birth house much better. You can see a lock of his hair, his childhood violin, a ring he was given from royalty (you see it in a portrait then on display).
His residence has his original piano and it's an audio guided tour so you do get to hear a lot of his music...but it just didn't pack the same punch as his birth house (In my humble opinion).

We also climbed up to the fortress for views of the city. We had HUGE pretzels, We went into the Salzburg Dom. This is a MUST see. The art alone will make you gasp. I felt so small in the huge cathedral. Interesting fact? In 1944, the Dom was bombed by the allies. I couldn't help but wonder if my grandfather (whose plane was shot down in Austria) could've had some connection with the bombings there...
But, it's now completely restored and very glorious...

We saw the statue of a man standing on a golden ball, and the human sized chess board. There were tons of dogs and lots of babies...and the window shopping is fantastic...but with stores like Louis Vuitton &Vogue, you can rest assured that ALL the Suman's did was window shop.
Like I'm going to spend over 1,000€ for a purse when we have a hand-me-down sofa? Uhm. my goodwill vintage purse find is more up my alley.

The strange/local color things we saw? A caricature of Hilter graffitied on a wall, a silver statue man of Mozart who was handing out postcards and bowing with grace. (He scared me). A man playing Amazing Grace on the accordion (VERY beautiful, too I might add) A mullet that was shaved on top and dred locked in the back, a blond eurotrash decked to the nines, a couple making out more than PG 13 style right in old town, a woman screaming in accented english that her food was "Shit" and she was "piss" (Pissed off). Mike wanted to make a video of that debacle.

Alas, we skipped the Sound of Music tour, promising ourselves we'll do it if/when we return.
We had a lovely time, and I think we enjoyed it more because we weren't in peak tourist season...
Those Mozart concerts that lured us there? Well, we didn't want to pay the big bucks for a fancy pants concert, when really we did a fly by the seat of your pants trip and didn't bring fancy pants clothes, and the impromtu ones? Yeah, there were signs that said "No Koncerts today."  Oh well, Macht's Nicht...

Salzburg was still beautiful. Still fun, and still enchanting....

Tess.

When you live far away from where home is...a whole ocean away... it mostly is exciting. Being in a new place, where the language you speak is the 'foreign' language, everyday can seem like an adventure.

Yet there are many times when the excitement is eclipsed by the distance.
Such was the time when Tess passed away. It didn't feel like a grand adventure. It felt distant. I actually felt exactly how far away we are from family, from friends, from home.

Now, it needs to be said, Tess is a cat. A cat that I tried ever so gently, ever so determinedly, ever so...forcefully to make 'my' cat. My pet. I adopted her. I took her home with me. I named her. I bought her toys and collars, and various kitty essentials.
In a nutshell, I loved her. I still do.
From the moment I took her to my mom's house, when she was but a wee kitten...Tess made it official. She was not my cat. Not for nothing.
Tess couldn't have cared less about me. Not that she didn't tolerate me, because she did. With her impatient tail flick she would let me lounge my head on her big bell. She would head butt me for affection.
From the moment she met my mom...well, I no longer exsisted. Well, no, that's not true. I became...an extra in her movie.
She loved mom. She would sit by mom. Sleep by mom. Spend time with mom.
Me? Yeah, she'd grouchie meow at me. IF she decided to acknowledge my presence.
Oh, but I still loved her.
I loved her for her moodiness. I loved her for her love of christmas. I loved her simply for the sweet way in which she carried her duck (named lucky duck) in her mouth like he was her kitten. She'd walk with him and cry/meow. She did this when she thought she was alone.
One sight of anyone, and she dropped the duck and looked impatiently in your direction. A cool denial of her affection for Lucky Duck.

Despite all her distance (to everyone but mom) She was a loving cat.
She loved music. She would lounge and listen to Aretha with my mom. Tess could hear the theme music to American Idol..and no matter where she was in the house, she'd bound to the Tv. Every single time it would come on. Then, as soon as the show was over....she went back to her business of lounging, napping, or just watching out the window.
She would talk to birds...and in her younger days, she was a huntress. Killing little mice who found a way to sneak inside. In her older days...she let one climb in her food bowl and scurry back outside...leaving the hunting to my parents.

Tess was a good cat. She was a family member. My mom had a close undeniable bond with her. They were a pair. And truly, Tess was in every way, my mom's cat. Or Mom was Tess's person, to put it more accurately.

So when my dad told me over the phone that she had died...it truly felt like a piece of me was missing. Living so far away, I felt the helplessness of not being able to say goodbye. I sobbed on our living room sofa while Michael tried to comfort me.
He gave me a cool washcloth to put on my forehead.
He got me a cool drink.
He looked at my photo album of Tess with me.
I told him about what kind of kitten she was. How silly she could be. The way she took a bite from my sister's sandwich when Tess thought Lynsey was taking too long to eat.
 I remember the last time I saw her. She head butted my hand. I told her I was going to Germany, but I'd be back. She purred and rubbed her head against my hand, then flicked her tail.
Funny how when I think of going home...I think of Soozie there to greet me..tail wagging in excitement. And of Tess...hopping off Mom's bed to come say Hi.

She will always live forever in my memory.

Do you believe in love? Cause I got something to say about it, and goes something like this...

Saturday Michael and I decided to go to Bamberg for shopping and such, but only after the laundry was done and various other little around the housey things.

He left the apartment for what seemed like would be a long time.
And upon his stepping out, I decided to step in to the shower.

I was soaping up, and as I covered my hair in suds, I suddenly got a song in my heart.
One that I couldn't keep inside.
I think showers MAKE people sing. Not for nothing, we've all seen The Flintstones. Fred singing in the shower and was struck with real vocal talent...
In my heart of hearts, I believed the suds, the steam and the echo would turn me into Madonna.

So there I am belting out:

You've got to make him
Express himself
Hey, hey, hey, hey
So if you want it right now, make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not
Express yourself
You've got to make him
So you can respect yourself
Hey, hey
So if you want it right now, then make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not

I'm not saying I was using the body wash bottle as a microphone. And I'm not saying I wasn't. But my eyes were closed (to prevent soap getting in the eyes but also to testify), and the Hey hey's were coming from the heart. I rocked the whole song. The scent of olay body butter with ribbons cheering me on. The water spraying sounding like fans going wild
And after I finished holding out the last note...
I heard giggling "Hey Honey. I'm uhm...home. Just didn't want to scare you. Keep expressing yourself."

I opened my eyes, I put my microphone to my side, my cheeks blushing.
I didn't even know I how long I'd had an audience...
But I think I can pretty much say I have at least one fan.

Trying on sports for size

I was the kid who kicked and missed the kickball. I walked to first. I picked cloverflowers in the outfield. The only part of my body that ever played volley ball was my head, when the ball would ricochet off of it. I would've rather stuck my nose in a book than dodge a ball. In fact, I never quite understood (even at the tender elementary school age) the desire to throw a ball HARD at someone. Quite literally, it took hearing Taylor Swift squawk out 'songs' before I fully grasped the concept.

I lived my life in contentment, free of sports. Then two days ago all that changed. Michael is on a two week training, and I could just blame this on his absence. As in absence makes Amber believe she should try out sports.
Here's how it went down....

At the Unit/Company/will-i ever-figure-out-Army-terms Christmas party, I met another spouse. Barbara.
Later, I ran into her at German class. We exchanged emails.
Our guys go on training.
We emailed. We went to a play (Nutshell: Germans pretended to be Southern Americans "Let's go to Chic-filla, ya'll")
She says to me "Do you play raquetball?"
Me: No.
She: Would you like to learn?
Me: Sure. Sounds fun (What? WHY? why did I Say that?!)
She: Ok. Let's play tomorrow.
Me: Great!
I mean how hard can it be? Hit a ball off a wall. No problem...it's easy as someone rolling a ball towards you for you to kick....right?

She comes over to bring me with her to the gym. I'm wearing my normal zumba clothes...LONG exercise pants (to cover up the fact that husband gone=3 days unshaven legs) and a regular old tshirt.
Immediately I feel....underdressed. awkward.

Just to set the picture...just so you'll grasp my insecurity.. Allow me to describe Barbara.
She is very striking. She has a model's body, tall, thin, graceful. Her Polish accent makes men stop in their tracks.
And bare in mind she is SO nice that I didn't notice any of this until we were walking into the gym. She's in her cute gym clothes. Which immediately made me realize...she shops for gym clothes...I wear whatever is old enough to get soaked in an unwashable sweat smell and not care.

Standing next to her tallness, I immediately felt like she was Dorothy and I was in the lollipop guild welcoming her to munchkinland. There she is in those capri-style workout pants and a cute tank top..and not even a hint of a fat roll anywhere on her.
There I am in my ol' trusty bo duke tee and...well you get the picture....

I struggled putting on my goggles and felt like Amelia Earhart complete with bad hair, and quite sure that I was going to get lost over the wild and wooly seas of raquetball, never to be heard from again....
While Barbara gently glided on her goggles and looked...like she wasn't wearing any.
What? How did THAT happen?

So, whatever, this is about fun, right?
Uhm. ok. But...

She plays raquetball. And gracefully. She looked like a swan moving to whap that little demon blue ball back to the wall.
Then this poor girl blessed with short little Padgett legs looked like...the little engine that could...n't hit a ball to save a dolphin.  Because unlike her, I expected the ball to come to me. Not the other way around.
And one time I even reached out to catch it. I actually tried to catch the ball.  NOT the object of the game.

I don't need to do sports. Zumba, sure. The occasional stationary bike, gotcha. Maybe MAYBE an eliptical. Sports. Nein.

She would say "So only let dee ball bounce once. If it comes to you you haff to go leff or right to get it to hit to dee wall, ok?" Her polish accent echoing off of the little cage of doom we'd willingly closed ourself into.

When I did hit it (rare occasion) she would exclaim "Sehr GUT Frau Suman!" 

My Amelia goggles were sweating.  Not my body, mind you, no. The area around my eyes. Was. Sweating. I was foggin' up.  Apparently those damn goggles were too tight, and they suction cupped themselves to my face. Not only that,  while Barbara's bun was in perfect place, my pony tail was falling out and looking quite oily.

When we finished she removed her glasses, no sweat build up inside of them. She looked fresh as a daisy in may.
My goggles tangled in my lost-cause pony tail. She started giggling "You have to tell ya baby dat I gave you black eyes." 
I said "what?"
She said "Ya goggles is too tight. Ya husband will say 'why you have black eyes?'"
I looked in the mirror...there it was. the perfect imprint of the goggles from forehead to cheekbones. But not black, beet red. No no, beet red is kinda pretty with the magenta tones...I'll just say it TOMATO red.

Barbara then took me to the stretch out room. "Ok, now we stretch."
Honestly, I didn't feel the need to stretch. I just stood there while "playing". I don't think I was at risk in pulling a muscle.
But ok. I'll stretch.

Let me explain...in this room there is a ballet bar along a mirrored wall. Barbara just places her leg swan like right up on the bar. Meanwhile shortie over here had to kick it up there. Several times just to get the foot on the bar. I may have even said HU! but let's not talk about that.....

We stretched...I felt like a gumdrop next to...a candy cane.

After all was said and done she said "Do you know what my nickname is?"
Me: No
She: Basia.
Me: Pretty.
She: We pretty good friends now, so you can call me Basia.
Me:  You can call me.....on my house phone anytime.

(I have no cool nickname...and I was thisclose to making one up just to fit in...but I know my husband would eventually blow my cover...as in...
Basia: Hello Am-dizzle.
Me: S'up Basia!
Mike: Who is Am-dizzle?)

Basia then said....Ok we go to the commissary for junk food.
Ok Ms. Metabolism...have at it...I'll just have...a splenda packet or two...

I Used The Men's Room In Brussels.

My buddy, who has earned a variety of nicknames lately, (My current most-used nickname for him "Hunchy Bear" which I created while trying to say Honey/Monkey/Buddy Bear.) surprised me with a New Years Trip to London.
And at first, I thought it was a joke.
But the boyish grin on his cute little face convinced me that he was in fact telling the honest to buddha truth.
Only catch? We were traveling caravan style on a charter bus.

Before I knew it, we were standing in the snow in front of the chapel, waiting with other shiver-ers for our bus. We scored the other front row seats on the top level of the bus, So we had a clear view of the road, and the motion sickness was cut way down to zip.
Nothing but nothing could prepare us for a 10 hour bus trip across Europe on a bus full of soldiers. At about 12am, I was roused from slumber by two disgruntled soldiers in each others faces. Yelling obsenities at each other, and just before it came to blows, someone came to the rescue and seperated the feuding duo.
Mike woke up and tried to stand up and then said "What's going on?"

Shortly after that, I watched as we blazed (however much 'blazing' you can do at 100 kph) past the sign Nederlands. I smiled. Out of Germany, finally.
I fell asleep and woke up in Brussels. I had no idea when we'd even gotten to Belgium. I just NEEDED to use the bathroom. And I needed 70 euro cents and quick.
I rushed into the bathroom and to my surprise, the bathroom break was a freebie. I wiped the sleep from my eyes just to insure I wasn't dreaming. Then I saw it. Yellow tape over the women's room. All that was available was a Handi and the mens room.
The handi was occupied in a situation very similar to a woman in the movie The Sweetest Thing.
Our "tour guide" a long haired non-rick steves said "Don't worry, I'll hold the line. Go on in." And he motioned to the mens room.
It was dark in there. Dark and intimidating.
There was artwork that I couldn't read, and didn't even want to try to GUESS at the I'm sure Foul Words that adorned the shakey stall walls.

I imerged a changed more jaded woman.

But no less, we were still enroute to Jolly ol'...and I couldn't wait. I was chomping at the bit to step into London. The city I'd dreamed of over and over again as a little girl.

I fell asleep again and woke up just in time to see the Welcome to France sign. I got adrenaline rush. I felt like dancing up and down the aisle of the bus singing "I could've danced allll night!" there I was, in FRANCE. In FRANCE. Who cares if it wasn't Paris. That will come in due time...but France! I thought half way of waking up my snoring Sumie. But I was just too excited. I took it all in. The little houses, the farmland, the factories...all from the light of street lights because really at 4 in the morning, how much light is there?

When we made it to the ferry, my excitement grew. There, as we crossed the channel and England came into view, stood the gorgeous white cliffs of Dover.
I got another stamp in my passport welcoming to me England.
We'd made it.
There we were driving on the wrong side of the road, right into London.
There was no sun light, only foggy overcast. I wanted to cry as we got to London. The houses all lined up, early birds up to get their coffee, tea, donuts, whatever were walking across the zebra crossings. And all I wanted to do was cry. I was THAT excited.
And when our bus went into the city I took it all in. I pointed excitedly to St. Paul's.

We weren't aware that our tour began...immediately. No showers, no freshening up because hotel check in wasn't until 2pm. And here we are at 7am rolling into London, tourists sardine can style.
I chose to wear pj's on the overnight trip. Because...well who wouldn't? It was, after all, most comfortable.

So, when we got off the bus, there I was, in a sleep shirt, and loungie pants, and winter boots. Basically not the outfit I wanted to wear when I first stood under Big Ben. But even the lack of 'real' clothes didn't extinguish my exhuberance.
We walked past Big Ben, West Minster Abbey, into St. Jame's Park where everything was green, and there were swans swimming as though it's no-big deal. I skipped when I saw the Diana Princess of Wales Memorial Trail Marker.
How could I be anything but speechless as the guards on horseback trotted past us on the way to Buckingham Palace?

Standing there by the Palace I'd seen in my many many royal books, I said "Wow. The Balcony isn't as high as I thought it would be." I stood there staring at my childhood dreams. I thought to myself, If someone would've told me when I was a little girl that I'd be standing right by Buckingham Palace....well, I'd feel just as excited then as I do right now.

The good news about our trip, is Michael and I ditched the tour group. For a variety of reasons..the first being...we didn't want to be limited on what we could see/do in our limited time. AND there was a girl on the tour that when she saw ANYTHING with the name Victoria on it she had to ask "But where is the Secrets"
Honestly, we didn't want to deal with the stupidity on this trip...we wanted to mingle with Brits. We wanted to walk down little side streets, we wanted to Mind the Gap, and climb to the Whispering Gallery.

In our few days there we managed to eat fish and chips, see Queen Elizabeth I's tomb, stand where Diana's coffin was during her funeral, Stand in the exact spot where Fergie married Andrew and where William will marry Kate (Everyone gently corrected me calling her Catherine.)
We climbed the stairs of St. Paul's just the same ones Diana climbed on her wedding day. We walked hand in hand down the long aisle at St. Paul's to stand exactly where she curtisied to the queen on that day.
We watched street shows in Trafalgar Square, ate Mcdonald's standing outside the crowded Piccadilly Circus McD's.
I walked the soles off my boots. Happily.

In St. Paul's while we bought a little souvenir bird and plaque, a man said "Where's home?" (Mike & I agreed to say we were from Maryland since being from two different places takes longer to answer that question)
Once we started talking to him, we told him we were actually from Georgia and Seattle. He then began telling us about our respective football teams. It was really awesome to get football updates from a British guy. We smiled about that for days.

Our New Years eve we found ourselves right by the River Thames across from the Eye of London. We enjoyed watching crazy people dancing, all the funny hats, and generally taking part in the good cheer. The fireworks were absolutely unreal. I got misty eyed when everyone sang Auld Lange Syne.

One thing is certain. I did not want to return to Bamberg. I loved England. I loved the friendly faces. I truly loved not having to 'think' about the words to use, the conjugation of verbs before ordering food, or talking to people.

But we did have to come back to Bamberg, where snow mounds awaited, and dreams of London hung like fog in our hearts and minds.

Royal Weddings

I grew up adoring Princess Diana. If a magazine had her picture on it, I begged my mom for it every step through the store.
I clipped articles from the newspapers. My grandparents showered me with books and various other Diana memorabilia.
At the tender age of 9, I practiced her poses in the bathroom mirror. I was in adoration of the ONLY Princess in the world.
I gave school report after school report about her.
I watched her funeral, and cried all day long.

Still, to this very day, people still give me books about Diana for holidays, and I still devour each book.

So, when Prince William announced his engagement....I was startled, and I admit it, offended even at the sight of Diana's ring...that ICONIC ring...on some brunette.
Someone NOT Diana.
It just felt wrong seeing it there, on her finger. While she smiled at William, and waved her hands around in the interview to be sure that everyone saw it resting on her hand.
I cringed. I did. And I'm a nerd for admitting so.

But I just couldn't believe my eyes.
I thought of her telling her parents and showing them Diana's ring. And it annoyed me.
I complained to my husband. I told everyone I was offended.....

And I wondered if I was alone in feeling so....digusted.

Sharing is Caring...

Picture it...I was snoozing in our sleep number under our soft green shabby chic quilt, dreaming that Michael is in the living room watching drum videos, it's realistic. I even think "That's Mike Portnoy he's listening to..." and I pop my eyes open with excitement. It's 7:13am. Still dark outside..
I hop out of bed, run to the dark living room and...nothing. Nothing on tv except for the little red light that indicates (in case you unsure) that the TV is in fact, off..
I thought to myself...How RUDE to be startled awake for a false alarm, and besides, why would he come home so early and make his first order of business watching dvds...
Since it was still dark, I decided to do what anyone else would...I crawled back into the warm bed.

I realized that someone was outside, closing their car doors and that had to be the 'drumming' that woke me up.
As I lay there in bed disgruntled...I thought... Man...I share my husband with a fatlot of people. Family, friends, coworkers, some people I'll never even meet....
I woke up again to daylight at 9.
Shuffled to the kitchen and made coffee. Coffee that I drank while standing up, making a grocery list. Since the commissary is closed on Mondays, I had to get my few things for the week, today.

 I literally just missed the bus as it flew past our buildings. The decision was made for me, I was walking to buy my food. 

As I walked I thought about not knowing exactly when Michael would be coming home. His online hints flew way over my head. "I am doing this on that day...so that should be a hint of when I'll be home." and "I stopped doing that on this day...so that is another hint."
I strained my mind to think...did we have a code? Did I forget it? Is this a reference to something I should know?

As I kicked through the huge yellow leaves that carpet the ground I thought...Funny...I am keenly aware of where the phone is at in the apartment all times just incase I get a morale call. Which, who knew that 10 minutes of listened-in on conversation would be the highlight of my week?

I thought about how all the pretty leaves will be gone by the time he gets home...and thought of what dessert I could make for him, and how I seriously hope that I do get an email letting me know when he'll arrive. And yes, even what color of lipstick I'll wear the day he gets here.
I thought the most selfish thing anyone could possibly think...I thought "I hate sharing him with everyone and their brother. I wish he was home. Sharing is NOT caring. Whoever was the first person to cross stitch that on a pillow can KISS it."

Then I saw them...all the welcome home banners tied to the fences for soldiers returning from deployment. Standing out like party decorations against the grey sky.
 Welcome Home Daddy!
Welcome Home My Hero!
 I've Missed You my Husband!
Banners decorated with pictures of smiling wives, chubby babies, happy soldiers....

And I thought this is only a temporary mission that Michael is on. He's only been gone a month and 4 days. Here I am whining and these spouses have dealt with a year apart. They have been sharing their spouses, and way more than my little selfish-self has even thought about doing.

I felt like such a terrible woman, a selfish wife. Making sure everyone knows that I've only had about 3 months with Michael out of our first year of marriage. Seeing a picture on a banner of a baby that her daddy has missed nearly the entire first year of her life, kinda puts things into perspective....

And I walked the rest of the way in the wind to the commissary thinking of how lucky I actually am....