Through The Looking Glass ...

Every morning, at 7:40 am, whether we want to or not, I drop Riley off at our community center pool for swim practice. Because Sheridan's practice isn't directly after Riley's, I make four round-trips ... adding pure joy to our morning as everyone piles into the car.

Sometimes we're all up early, and manage to grab a quick bite before we head out the door. Other times, with sleep still in our eyes, we begrudgingly throw on shorts and flip flops, and slowly saunter down the steps and into the car, bickering with each other as only the four of us can.

With as many hours we spend at the pool, it shouldn't come as any surprise that we Sheridan often forgets to grab her stuff on the way out. And who can blame her, as our bags are always overflowing with swim caps and swim fins, goggles, floaty devices, and sun block, water bottles, band aids, wipes, towels, and extra clothes. Oh and a smorgasbord of toys that have our last name plastered all over in a bold, black sharpie.

Frustratingly, despite sitting next to the kids the entire time at the pool, rattling off the litany of crap to ensure we are leaving with the exact same amount of everything we came, without fail we make our way to the "Lost and Found" box ... at least once a week.

Sometimes more.

And as I loudly mumble under my breath, yet again tearing through the large plastic box of lost chlorine stained t-shirts, diving toys, and broken goggles, looking for that elusive pair of children's purple swim fins that I know I'm never going to find, I slowly realize that this search has become just another metaphor for my life.

Since Matt's departure to Afghanistan, I find myself in a never-ending exploration ... with the "for" still remaining to be seen. A quest, made difficult for someone who's so self-sufficient and fiercely independent, to feel so vulnerable or ill at ease. I've never been the one to raise my hand and ask for help. A badge of honor that I'm not exactly proud to wear, though letting my guard down and admitting that I'm a little lost and a lot lonely, goes against almost every fiber of my being.

After almost a month of radio silence, I fear I'm at an impasse where I have so much to say ... yet, can't seem to find my voice. The voice that should so boldly be taking umbrage with the State Department over training prior to Matt's departure to Afghanistan, the lack of travel reimbursements, and horribly missed opportunities for families on unaccompanied tours ... (there's a whole lot of snark that I haven't even BEGUN to unleash). Or the voice who's been failing to document our hectic summer, the recent visit with my parents, the upcoming visit with my in-laws. And then there's the one who's only lightly skimmed over the important factors with the latest house painting updates, the girls successes on swim team, and Grady's recent potty training.

So many pictures taken. So many stories. Though as I open and close my website, I'm saddened to see the weeks go by in between postings.

As time goes by I'll continue to search for whatever "it" is I fear I've misplaced. However, when it's finally turned in to the lost and found, would someone within my village or community please let me know? You'll know that it's mine because my name will be written all over it in a black, waterproof sharpie.