The last time I posted in this blog was over a year ago. But then I was no longer a stay-at-home mom - I was working full time as a teacher! My daughter had started daycare, my husband was still in Afghanistan, and the only thing I might have found time to write would have been "Gaaaaahhhh! Ok, think positive, serenity now, etc. etc. I'm going to have a glass of wine (after M's bedtime, of course)."
That fall was the most hectic I have ever known. Even completing a Master's degree seemed like a breeze compared to this. I preserved my sanity by simply not thinking, watching "Sex and the City" in the evenings, and enjoying the occasional glass of wine. A few months later my husband's mission was over; he came back from Afghanistan just in time for Christmas, bringing along with him an interesting exotic strain of the gastric flu, and life was more comfortable (after the flu passed, of course). I continued to teach until the summer, when we moved to a new city and I looked forward to the birth of our second daughter in December.
Oh, and, FYI, I am definitely thinking about not teaching again. It is an honorable, rewarding job, but it has its risks. I mean, I think it may not be an exaggeration to point out that my job was more high-risk than my husband's. Even when he was in Afghanistan. And there were rockets sailing over his head on a daily basis.
There was this one time where we were Skyping, and he was sitting at a computer in a small cubicle set up for that very purpose. Suddenly I heard a rather alarming-sounding alarm (a cheap pun, I know, but I really couldn't help it) coming from his end of the connection.
"Ugh. Not again," he said.
"What is that?" I asked.
"It's just a rocket attack." (Seriously. That was his response. Of course I panicked right away.)
"Well - do something! Hide!"
"Where?" He had an exasperating grin on his face. "The bunker's too far away. Technically I'm supposed to get under this desk, but there's really no room."
"Um, ok. Soooo ... what do we do now?"
"Keep talking. How was your day?"
A minute later the alarm stopped, and we continued our attempt to have a normal conversation. Not long after, I noticed my husband seemed distracted by something.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. I heard it go off."
"You WHAT???"
That's when he explained to me that this was indeed an everyday occurence. I asked if the rockets ever hit anything. Sometimes, he explained, but no one had ever died. Someone had lost a finger once, if he remembered correctly.
I could not help having this vision of a group of rather annoyed Taliban, hiding in their cave in the mountains, their leader standing next to a hastily mapped-out sketch of the military base on a tiny blackboard, hitting it with a long stick and looking mildly cheesed-off:
"Now, this time I want you to try really hard to hit something. Anything at all. It doesn't need to be something big, even a toilet would be acceptable. Preferably with someone in it."
Now, I may have been too hasty in making fun. My husband did inform me, after he had been home a month, that someone in Kandahar had told him that a rocket landed right in his office two weeks after he had left it.
But I digress.
I have two daughters; my first is almost three years old, and my baby, who for the purpose of this blog I shall name G, is two months old. She was born just before Christmas, on December 15, on her due date (she is quite punctual). She was born at a birth house, and I was accompanied by a midwife. By the way, I fully intend on writing a post about the merits of choosing to give birth with a midwife rather than doing so in a hospital. More about that later.
So now I am a mom at home again - and very much looking forward to writing about it.
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