I asked my husband once why he wanted to be in the military. His words have resounded through the years, the moves, the trials.
“I do it so that Greg doesn’t have to. So that Jeff and Mark and others don’t have to. Because it is a good thing to do.”
 
I’m writing this right now to remind myself. I need to carry that truth in this moment, because I am weary. Moving is my kryptonite, and a continental move is proving to be a whole new kind of carnival. I’m exhausted, lonely, and ready to be done.

We are going on 2+ months of ‘simple living.’ We only have the items we carried with us in our packs like tinkers (clothes, toiletries, chocolate that has since been consumed) and anything we have purchased post-arrival.

Do you see the trouble yet?
Attempting to run a household without anything in it (cleaning, making meals, entertaining children) is like trying to start a fire by rubbing together two old sticks. It might happen if you’re lucky, but most of us are just going to get a blister. And freeze.

But let me share the most ridiculous piece of joy in this mess. And I know this is a bizarre turn in this blog, but love and generosity can do so much to help a crazy displaced lady.
Edward bought me a vacuum.

A vacuum?
A vacuum.

A billion years ago, when we hardly were making enough money to pay the bills every month, my husband bought me a Roomba for an anniversary gift. For those who don’t know, it’s a vacuuming robot that goes around and cleans my house while I sip on a drink with an umbrella in it. It was fabulous, and more extravagant than I would have done for myself.
It was the best anniversary gift in the world.

We are now approaching our ten year anniversary in August.
I, half-joking as I perused Prime Day deals, said I wanted the Dyson V8 as my 10 year gift.
“Yeah? Let me see.”
He looked at the listing.
“Ok. Order it.”
Wait. What?
Hadn't he seen the price tag, even with the discount?
He had.

It came in three days (which still seems insanely fast after ordering things in Germany) and I have been dancing around with my vacuum ever since. It is light and easy and oh, so glorious. The chore potential for my children is positively heart-warming.
 
I know it seems lame that a vacuum cheers me, but is the nature of my life right now. It makes my tasks lighter. Plus I can vacuum AND hold my giant baby at the same time. It is brilliant.

So this Tuesday, I may still be feeding my 7 month old in my lap, and my kids are sleeping on air mattresses, but gosh, my house is well-vacuumed.

Small joys, right?

I go through a good number of books in a year, and a significant number of them audio. I wouldn’t be able to buy groceries while supporting this habit if I hadn’t stumbled upon the e-lending option at the public library. As I also recently discovered two avid reader friends were ignorant of this service, I want to dedicate a post to the process. It is both easy and wonderful.

Now you can make wish lists, put ebooks and audiobooks on hold, and read/listen to your heart’s content. You can even request items to be purchased that aren’t available. I typically have my phone on hand, so listening to a book while I clean or drive is cake.

I use Overdrive for my family too. My husband usually reads boring (translation: non-fiction) books, but he is currently on a fiction kick with the Master and Commander series. Edward was both buying and tearing through them until I mentioned how I could get them for free. He doesn’t even have to do anything. I just check them out and, as I use Amazon, I choose which device in which to send the loan.

No e-reader? One can still get the Kindle app on any smart phone and read right there. I’ve burned through books that way. I prefer a bigger screen, but as I’ve said before—I carry my phone with me. So it’s an easy way to read at the doctor’s office instead of throwing my time to the birds by scrolling through Facebook.

Gosh, I love the public library.
 And as my step-dad says, “If it's free, it’s for me.”

“What was it like living in Germany for 4 years?”
“Are you glad to be back?”
 
I have no simple answer for these questions. Traveling with my husband was glorious. Having my girls learn to speak a second language was fascinating. I loved the slower pace of the European culture, the Sunday family time, the gorgeous churches, the festivals for the varied seasons. Life was enjoyable, lived.

But there is a piece of Germany that has left me a motley of emotions, and I am still brewing and sorting through them. Because grief and growth are complicated. They are treasures, but tender ones. Ones that are difficult to even whisper. But I will try.

In Germany, I felt small. I was criticized regularly for not knowing the language. I often did not understand the cultural context for basic things (grocery shopping, parking, schools, eating out, how one dresses, body language, conversation) and so I felt uncomfortable and unsure. Others were irritated at me. I was a bother, a terrible inconvenience. I was seen as unintelligent because I couldn’t speak well and my grammar was painful. I embarrassed myself and looked the fool in front of the mechanic, at the mall, at the park, at church, at school meetings. I felt the part of the alien over and over.

Now do not get me wrong, I had some people be truly lovely to me. Several parents took pains to help me, I had a German language teacher go above and beyond in attempting to teach me (I did do some study), and many, especially the younger generations, did not make me feel their efforts in speaking English. They did it simply to show kindness.

But the reason why I bring up my discomfort is because I had never before been the outsider. I grew up middle class, Christian. I am a white woman who has known privilege and been relatively protected. In Germany though, I suddenly knew the experience of being ‘other.’ And it was harder than I would have ever imagined. It was sobering.
 
And it has filled me with regret over my previous attitude toward aliens.

The Hispanic kids who banded together, rattling Spanish to each other as we all attended public schools. They were different from me, right? Why would I seek them out to be friends? Or the countless times I judged the immigrants who moved to the States, not knowing English. Because if you move here you should learn it, right? It’s our national language. Other languages are unimportant anyway.
 
Yes, I blush at my insensitivity.

I had 4 years to learn a language. I didn’t have to work outside of the home, and for much of the time both of my kids were in school. But the judging eyes didn’t see my battle with depression, didn’t know my husband was gone more than he was home, didn’t see the pain of a miscarriage, didn’t see how little I had to give emotionally.
Why then, should I assume anyone else could manage an easy shift into a new culture? Why then should I expect others to not have the same soft weaknesses in their lives? To not need tenderness?
 
Why was I blind to the need for mercy? To the reality that I, most assuredly, am part of this wreck of broken humanity?

The funny thing is, the times when someone would actually show me kindness would be when I would weep the most. I needed gentleness so desperately, to not have every encounter met with criticism.
Mercy had a beautiful way of healing those hard parts of my heart, and it showed me the way I want to be, and the love I want to give.

I’m not talking about huge things. I’m talking about quiet, small acts of kindness. Saying hello, a touch of reassurance, a smile, an understanding glance, being the voice that speaks for the small. I’m just one, little person—but an attitude of respect for the ‘other’ does affect.
I felt both its lack and presence acutely.
 
I’m certain I have hundreds of other ways in which I fail to love. But I am thankful for the reminder of how blind I am, and how crucial it is to walk through life seeing others—for their sake, and for mine.

For those interested in birthing overseas…
 
Carrying a baby in Germany was roughly the same ordeal as it was in the States. I was exhausted, got dizzy when I bent over, and still needed to roll in order to evacuate my bed. Prenatal care was similar, but there were a few interesting pieces that varied:

5. Delivery
Each mama is given a laboring room. Mine was spacious and boasted of a hot tub sized laboring pool, a bed with a noose-like contraption above it for gripping, a private bathroom, a ball, mats, chairs.

I was assigned a midwife to help me and shook hands with the doctor briefly when she popped in to introduce herself. The midwife checked in regularly, but I think sweet Ingeborg read my need-for-privacy cues and made herself scarce. Translation: I rage against the person who messes with me while said baby-who-is-too-giant is catapulting through my body.
 
Shortly after arrival, assuming the baby isn’t shooting out, they administer a stress test. And then again once you are nearing the end. I may have voiced a calm and level-headed comment of feedback regarding said test shortly before pushing out Daniel.
 
Germans are not big on epidurals, but when things grew intense, the midwife offered me laughing gas. I’d heard about this and had been looking forward to laughing my way gleefully through contractions. But the gas only infuriated me. Remember, a Giant was coming, and between contractions was the only time to recover and think. The gas did nothing for the pain, but instead made me feel loopy during that brief breath of respite. I did not throw the tank against the wall, even if I may have felt the inclination.
 
I am told that Germans immediately give the babe to the mom after birth, goo and all, and let them both hang out for an hour, chest to chest. Daniel had some breathing issues so I didn’t get to see him for a bit, but I love when other moms tell me about this. It seems like such a special bonding time after the insanity of birth.

Lastly, I was instructed to sign up for group pelvic floor gymnastic classes…
I opted to look up my own exercises on Google.