Well, hello there. I see you’ve wandered your way into the completely disorganized, sarcastic ramblings that my husband convinced me to “share with” (read: unleash upon) the internet (instead of him).
So, in an effort to take the enormous burden of listening to my rather ridiculous thoughts off of my husband, C, I’ll start. Welcome, I think. I’m Alice. Like about a million and a half other bloggers, I’m a late-twenties mom. I’ve created two small clones of myself (I guess C helped). My first born is a four and a half year old crazy-pants boy, A, and then there’s my delightfully clingy, seven month old little princess, R.
At this point the thought my have crossed your mind, “why is this called Legless and Me? Get to the point, lady!” I’ll tell you why. I am extremely lucky to have the family that I do. Or at least extremely lucky that we are all here. C and I met and dated through most of college. When we graduated in May 2010, we stayed together and C took the summer to make a huge decision for himself and life direction. In September 2010 he enlisted in the US Army as a Combat Medic. He shipped on off to Fort Benning, GA for basic and we very quickly realized that if we wanted our relationship to work and be able to live the type of lives we wanted to, we would need to get married. We got married December 2010, and by doing so effectively sped up our “5 year plan” to a “right the F now plan”. We spent our first year of marriage living in Georgia. Looking back now, that first year was very similar to college, except there were paychecks and the very real threat of deployment. Which inevitably happened. Right around our first anniversary, we found out C would be deploying to Afghanistan within the next few months. And about four weeks later, we found out about A.
I was a miserable wreck to say the least. I was 23, pregnant, and scared. The idea of going through pregnancy, my first pregnancy, without my husband was hard enough. Pregnancy through a deployment was terrifying. I know I’m not the first woman to do it, and I definitely won’t be the last. But I will tell you this: It. Is. HARD.
But I did it. I had a baby. All on my own. Well, mostly. My mom was there, I know she was because I have photographic evidence, but I honest to goodness can’t remember her being there (sorry, Mom). I did my hospital stint, there were Skype calls to C and pictures and everything else. About two weeks into this motherhood gig, I was regaining some confidence. C was scheduled to come back in about 6 weeks, I’d started getting the hang of breastfeeding, I’d picked out a new apartment and put down the deposit, A was actually sleeping at night, I was really just doing awesome at life.
And then I got the call. The call that completely shattered my world and caused uncontrollable tears for the next 48 hours. C had stepped on an IED. Just in case you’ve been ignoring the news since 2001, and IED is an Improvised Explosive Device, designed to maim. I remember going into panic mode. I’m a planner, and a mild control freak. Everything I thought I had a handle on? Out the window. Done. Gone. I had a two and a half week old baby and a husband who’d just had his left leg literally blown off of his body. How do I get to him? He’s in Germany? F! My passport is still in my maiden name and I need to fix it. I have to figure out how to get a passport for a two week old. How do you even do that? What about the apartment? What about the car? Most of my thoughts were of every possible anxiety inducing thing and they came flooding into my head like water out of a busted dam scattered with fears and concerns for C, our life, and family. Once again, I was a wreck.
The next week was a blur. C got transferred to Walter Reed, the passports became moot, and I decided the apartment, car, and other bills and stressors could just wait while I made my way to Washington to introduce my husband to our son. And once we were there, together, everything kind of just started falling back into place. We had help, a LOT of help, but we figured it out. And we still are. We’ll get there.
I think I’ve probably dropped enough feels on you for one night. Plus, there’s that whole thing where R wakes up screaming bloody murder at 3am because she spat her paci, so I think my bed is calling me. If you found this interesting or entertaining, perhaps I’ll see you here the next time the mood strikes. But for now, goodnight, all.