Good Shiphandling = Watching Paint Dry

First off, a quick explanation.  At department head school, they try to teach you all sorts of useful things: protecting your ship during World War III, how to file the appropriate paperwork, what sort of things will get you and your boss fired...  And of course, how to drive a ship.  One of the scariest truths out there is that a good number of us SWO's (surface warfare officers aka shipdrivers) are really terrible shipdrivers.  So they set us up in evening sessions (1800-2200 anyone?) so you can practice.  During tonight's session on pierwork, I realized just how impatient I really am.  This was my actual thought process:

Hmm...  This whole twist thing seems to be working well...  I'm getting just the slight sternway that I need.  The prudent thing would be to just keep this going, back into that clear area, and do a three point turn... But that's going to take forever... and it is an imaginary ship after all...  Maybe I can do a full twist with the tug in this tiny channel...

And then I hit the cruiser behind me.  I could have sworn I would clear it.  And maybe I would have if I was a better shiphandler (a touch of all engines ahead 2/3, anyone?)  The instructor, who no kidding was on destroyer escorts, wisely summed up his advice:

When things are going well, don't try to make them go well faster.

I should make this my new mantra.  It makes sense.  I tend to figure out the right thing to do if I would just take my own advice most of the time.  Instead, I'm usually too impatient to just things keep going on the same course.  So you would think that as much as I admired this advice, I would take it, but fifteen minutes later while driving my imaginary ship back into port, this was my thought process:

Now I should just line up my ship with the pier heading so I clear the cruiser with lots of space... and then I can slowly do a port twist and just let the wind and current carry me pierside...  But that's going to take forever.  Maybe I'll just close the distance to the cruiser...

And then I nearly crashed into the same cruiser.  This time, the instructor just shook his head, moved my imaginary ship a bit farther out from the cruiser so my stern was now 70 ft away instead of 10 ft and let me finish.

Because the sad and awful truth of pierwork?  When done correctly, it takes FOREVER.  It's like watching paint dry.  And I hate watching paint dry.  So consider yourself duly warned if you ever see me take the "conn" while I keep glancing at my watch.  I always want things to go well faster.

Post-Traumatic Hair Cut Syndrome

"Wow, he's out cold.  How do you get him to sleep so well?"
"You traumatize him so that he exhausts himself while he's sobbing."
"Huh?"
"He got a hair cut this morning."

-----------------------------------------

This past weekend while home, Niles and I decided to take the kids to get their hair cut.  Owen's had pretty regular hair cuts since he was 9 months old while it was going to be Anduin's first.  I had kept letting her hair grow out, hoping that eventually I could just tuck her hair behind her ears.  Then again, I'm not the one at home wrestling with the tiny rubber bands the size of pencil erasers on the toddler who giggles and runs away.  Nor was I trying to trap her with my knees to put a hair clip in that she would just pull out.  Nor was I the one washing her hair again because Nutella/cottage cheese/whatever snack makes terrible styling gel.

And you would think with regular haircuts, Owen would be a natural at this.  He is not.  He has Post-Traumatic Hair Cut Syndrome.

The moment I walked into the salon, it was straight out of a cartoon.  Owen starts freaking out.  He's screaming, "No!  Go!  Go!  Go" in between chest heaves.  He actually has his little fingers wrapped around the door while I'm trying to simultaneously carry him and pry them off the frame.

Anduin, oblivious to what terror a hair cut holds, looks a little concerned that her older brother's suffering through hair cut flashbacks, but otherwise she contentedly drinks her cup of water while spilling some of it on the floor.

Then my mom hands her to Niles, who puts her on his lap so the stylist can begin cutting her hair.  That's when she realizes that something terrible is going to happen.  While she's begins to freak out, I'm still trying to talk my other toddler off the ledge using the wonders of Thomas the Tank Engine youtube videos.  This means I'm distracted and don't notice my mom giving the stylist instructions on how to cut Anduin's bangs.  What I see next is the shock on Niles' face as Anduin's beautiful, rocker chick bangs are cut... straight across... like a terrible bowl cut...

It was a scene out of my worst baby hair cut nightmares.

I may have lost it in the salon.  I may have screamed at my mother.  I may have acted less than the professional Naval officer I normally am.

And then, it was Owen's turn.  In order to prevent him from covering his hair with both hands, I literally had to pin his head across my chest and his arms against my stomach.  I rotated his taunt, ninja-esque body into various contortions as the stylist very quickly trimmed his curls and bangs so that he could see again.  He was so upset with me, he let Niles (who's normally chopped liver when I'm home) hold him and console him for the next hour.  Even excessive bribes of rides, ice cream, AND candy could not perk him up.

Maybe eventually he'll outgrow the Post-Traumatic Hair Cut Syndrome, though with my luck, it will be Anduin's fingers wrapped around the door frame.

The good news for Anduin?  That hair grows back.  The bad news for Owen?  That hair grows back.

Maybe next time, we'll try Nyquil first.

Veteran Mom = "Salty" LTJG

While at a party for a friend's child's one year birthday, I got to have an awesome Mom moment...  I was able to channel whatever skills I've attained as a mom of 2.5 and 1.5 year olds to gently rock a fussy newish born into nearly sleep.  You know, I've perfected the rocking motion, the gentle pat, the shushing sound, and I play a mean game of peekaboo.

On the way out, the Dad commented how I was a "veteran" Mom with "veteran Mom" skills.

And that's when I realized being called a "veteran" Mom of two young kids is like being called "salty" as a LTJG.  This is what I mean...  My kids are still young.  I haven't done anything super challenging yet like start them in school or fight through teenage rebellion.  Heck, I haven't even really tried potty training.  And let's be honest, celebrating birthday's for young kids is more like high fiving yourself that your child -- despite your "best" efforts -- has managed to survive another year as a generally well adjusted tiny human being.  (Do I need to mention the chef's knife incident?)  

It's just like being a LTJG.  It means that you have managed, despite some of the terrible decisions made as an Ensign, to have gained just enough requisite knowledge that the completely clueless Ensign standing next to you makes you look somewhat knowledgeable and dare I say it, "salty."

And now as a Lieutenant with my vast experience of... um... 8 years, I am finally starting to know how little I actually know, just like as a new Mom, I am starting to understand how completely amazing my children have celebrated multiple birthday's.

My Role as the Stereotypical Husband Is Set...

While checking my email a couple of weeks ago, I noticed there was an "order confirmation" from FTD.com.  Annoyed that someone would be so brazen as to steal my identity and account information AND then to not even bother changing the email address, I immediately opened it up to see where this imposter lived.

Turns out he lives in my house in Maryland.

And he was ordering a surprise bouquet of flowers to send to my work for our eight year anniversary.

My anniversary ---  CRAP!  The next day was my 8 year anniversary, and not only had I forgotten, I had completely forgotten while my super sweet husband had not only remembered, but he had planned ahead.  I would find out later that he had even called the quarterdeck of SWOS to make sure that the flowers could be delivered there.  He had called my roommate to double check.

In short, I had completely assumed the role of the terrible, stereotypical husband.  No last minute trips to the jewelry store here...  At least, my husband hasn't assumed the role of stereotypical housewife and demanded a diamond tennis bracelet as an apology.

He just laughed.

So next time you hear of Niles and me arguing over something pseudo-important, please remind me he has an out for remembering our anniversary while it was just another day to me.

Driving Ships is Not Like Riding a Bike

I'm in the beginning throes of Department Head school at the Surface Warfare Officer School (SWOS) in beautiful Newport, RI.  This is the first time in... oh... about three years that I'm actually being a SWO again, minus our brief foray in Dahlgren, Virginia playing in our imaginary combat fighting an imaginary war.  At SWOS, they instruct you in "basic" SWO skills... like driving ships.

First off, driving ships is not like riding a bike.  I may have been the GQ OOD, or one of the most reliable OOD's on my last two ships, but you don't magically remember exactly how to drive a ship the moment you return to a bridge, especially a virtual bridge.  So far, we've gotten to spend three days driving a virtual ship during a virtual transit to three homeports I've never been to in real life... which brings me back to my motto as a young Ensign:

"Whether you miss it by a meter or miss it by a mile, the important thing is that you missed it."

Unless, of course, you're being evaluated by a civilian mariner.  In that case, you'll fail.

At least, though I was lucky enough to not be in one of the other groups who failed on the "real" evaluated exercise.  One classmate summarized what went wrong succinctly, "It was the softest grounding I've ever seen.  So soft in  fact, there was water under the keel."

So no matter what anyone else tells you, driving ships is NOT like riding a bike.

Adult Abandonment Okay, Child Abandonment Not So Much

Abandoning my husband on a regular basis was acceptable.  After all, he was an adult and just reverted to being a bachelor (minus the strip parties or dating) when I deployed or was underway.  This meant that he could walk around all day in his underwear and eat meals consisting of cereal, instant noodles, or pizza.  And compared to other spouses, his spending basically dropped to $20 a month.  It was a great deal!  All he had to do was clean up the pizza boxes before I got home.

But then I had kids.  And suddenly, it wasn't the same as abandoning just their Dad.  Now I abandoned them with their Dad... which meant they ate cereal, instant noodles, pizza, lunch meat, cottage cheese, and yogurt.  Just kidding.  That's what I feed them when Dad leaves us occasionally.

It has become harder to leave.  In fact, it has become so hard that while I was stationed at Dahlgren, VA for three months for school, I decided to drive nearly everyday between Annapolis and Dahlgren.  This also had to do with the fact that there was very little to do in Dahlgren.  (For those of you who are lucky enough to never have been stationed there, the main hang out spots are the local Italian restaurant that acts like the bar and the new Wal-Mart.)  Keep in mind that it was an hour and a half commute each way.  I loved my kids so much that I spent three hours in a car everyday just so I could eat dinner with them and tuck them into bed at night.  Because my kids are little night owls, it meant that I would usually get to spend an hour with them awake for every hour that I spent in a car.  Fortunately, there was another officer in my class who was in the same situation so we were able to split the mileage on our cars...

Now that I am up in Newport, RI completing six months of department head school, it's been harder.  After all, there's no way for me to come home every night for dinner and bedtime.  Instead, I'm racking up the airline miles on Southwest.  But every mile or minute spent in the airport is worth it for another minute playing, tickling, hugging, snuggling them.  It was worth the hundreds of dollars in the roundtrip ticket to watch Owen's face as he watched The Lion King for the first time or Anduin falling asleep against me after our shower before I could even finish drying her off.


But let's be honest.  Had it just been Niles...  I probably would have abandoned him.  After all, adult abandonment is okay, child(ren) abandonment is not.

Single Again (Sort of)

Niles:  Just because you are by yourself up in Newport, it doesn't mean you are completely single and have to go hit the clubs.

Me: Of course not.  I don't even know what I would do in a club.

***    ****   ***

And no kidding, not less than five hours later, I find myself in the Boom Boom Room in Newport.  First off, let me explain.  I didn't really intend for that to happen.  I had originally thought that my friends and I were going to go to dinner and then a movie.  Or at least, that's what I told Niles.  But somehow after hitting a bar, we decided to go to the Boom Boom Room.

For those of you (un)lucky enough to never have gone, let me set the scene for you.  It's the most bottom level in a very nice looking restaurant (white tablecloths, candles, wine glasses, coat check girl, nautical/Caribbean music playing upstairs, the type of place you wouldn't feel uncomfortable taking your grandmother for her 70th birthday).  Sure, there appears to be a lot of men who at first glance look like they're taking their daughters out... only for us to discover they're their wives...  Or maybe a lot of "cougars" out on the town, but in general, it was a much classier place on the upstairs.

And then you go downstairs to the Boom Boom Room.  It's painted in garish red and black stripes on the walls, where it's just lit enough that you can see the paint on the walls.  There is a rather large bouncer constantly checking unguraded drinks with a flashlight.  Despite it being thirty degrees outside, there are still plenty of twenty-somethings dressed like they just came from the Jersey Shore.  This is the closest Newport has to a club.  And despite the fact the dance floor is the size of our kitchen floor in the tiny historical house I am staying with a friend, there are maybe thirty people jammed on it dancing to club music.  (Side note: It took me a solid two hours after leaving the club for my hearing to return.  Made me miss the Hearing Conservation Program.)

So my next confession: Even when I was young and single (or maybe just not married since I've been dating Niles forever), I never felt wholly comfortable in a club.  But as a mom of two dressed in a daytime sweater dress, I felt especially uncool.  Maybe I needed to wear sunglasses at night like a couple of kids, or maybe I needed to find a geriatric husband, or maybe I needed to be a young bride dancing her wedding night away without her groom, to be fully comfortable hitting the "club".  

Or maybe I would never be.

But it was fun.

And I still have five months and three weeks to try to be comfortable at the Boom Boom Room.