The Hardest Part

I am not a week into this deployment, and already, or maybe I should say still, I am shaky and wobbly.  There are moments where I believe I can conquer the world, and moments where I think it will all overwhelm me.  My child, how she is handling this, is my greatest weakness.

I know, logically, that Sprout will be ok.  That she will come through this deployment, without many memories of what is going on.  That supported by me, her Nana, her family and her friends, she will do just fine.  My child is nothing if not extremely resilient, tough, and extremely independent.

I am determined to give my child a better life, more stability, less chaos, more love and affection, less fighting and screaming, than what I had growing up.  I am driven, mostly by the demons of my past, to do better, to be better for her.  I know how illogical that sounds, and I am fighting it, working on it, the absolute best I can.  But deployment reared up as a giant black hole, filled with nothing but instability, and uncertainty.  The things I can do, and say, to minimize whatever impact this will have, is having on her, are limited, in the face of what is happening. 

During the day, I am fine with her questions and comments.  I explain where Daddy is, that he is staying at work; that we will talk to him as often as we can.  We color pictures and write on the calendar and watch videos and listen to songs, and look at the hundreds of pictures on my computer.  Armed with her Daddy Doll, her Battalion Buddy, her Daddy Quilt, books and TV shows on deployment, I am trying to guide her through this, to cushion the blow as much as I can.  As long as the sun is up, I am firm in my belief that she will come through this with the same attitude she comes through everything in life. 

When the sun goes down, as I tuck her into her bed, and she reaches for her Daddy Doll, with a picture of Carl tucked in it, I lose my faith.  I listen to her talk to her doll, talk about coloring and a bubble bath, sing the parts of songs she knows, and jabber in that semi-comprehensible stream of baby talk mixed with words that she speaks all day long.  In those moments, while my head knows she will be fine, my heart hurts.  In the dark of night, when his side of the bed, empty for now, seems enormous, when I cannot fill any more time to keep from missing him, when I should sleep and cannot, I lose my faith in my ability to carry Sprout through this. The moment she reaches for her Daddy Doll, and tells him about her day; the pain of it, that I cannot protect her, my own neuroses about her childhood, both rise up at me, and in the face of them, I crumble.  When she struggles with a bad dream, or cannot sleep and wants to be comforted, asking in that sleepy voice for Daddy, I find myself in tears before I can breathe again. 

I struggle more with my lack of control, over what I can do, as much as I do her actual pain.  I can take care of so much for her, ease a tummy ache, fix a broken toy, find her favorite lovey, flip through songs until her favorite one comes on the stereo.  But in the face of this, there is only so much I can do, only so many reassurances I can give.  They’re working, she seems satisfied with my explanations and my tricks and things to do. 

Logically I know she won’t remember these days, that they are doing far more damage to me than they are her.  But my heart still bleeds every time she tells that doll good night, or blows kisses to it in the morning.  The hardest part of this is convincing my heart that my head is right.

~Jennifer