For International Women's Day

Graphic from the UN Women Twitter Feed for International Women's Day

A few years ago I was at a evening party with my husband. It was like any military community party--we were at the home of a military couple, surrounded by other military couples. All of the couples at the party were the statistical norm, the man was the military member, and his wife, the female military spouse, was there with him. I'd known everyone there for all of maybe a year. As postings tend to do, we had been thrown together with people who worked with my hubby, and somehow I had built friendships with complete strangers.

I'm an extroverted introvert, and this particular party was just at the point in my life when I was starting to recognize that I can enjoy these events best by finding the people (generally women) I connect with, and not worrying so much about 'working the room'. In a small, loud house party, this is hard...and in this particular party, I found myself stuck, completely sober (as the DD) standing in the kitchen beside an older man who was there without his spouse and was already quite drunk.

With very little preamble he commenced a long and loud monologue, expounding on how good it was that I was there, supporting my husband at this party. And then, slurring his words as he spoke, he told me that every military leader he knows (himself included) has a supportive wife, and that was the secret of their success. The man succeeds because his wife keeps the home fires burning.

He was not wrong. I am one hundred percent sure that military leaders do better with a supportive, loving family beside them.

What rapidly turned the party from one that was enjoyable to one that I was ready to leave was the patronizing man-speak he used--completely oblivious to the fact that I had worn a uniform myself and was a professional in my own right--to let me know that I was in my place and should stay there.

I was the wife. He cared not one whit who I was, but was more than willing, as he swilled back another swig of whatever pompous drink he was swirling in his glass, to congratulate himself for being forward thinking (bravo! military spouse!) while he was, in fact, being just another chauvinistic man in a male-dominated world.

I listened, looking frantically for a way out of the conversation, nodding in the correct places (not that he would have noticed), and basically just taking his offensive tone until the opportunity arose to politely move away.

I was so angry. And so polite.

So politely angry.

And because I truly am a supportive spouse, I made no scene. I attempted to continue on with the party like I was fine. I drank my fancy soda and moved on.

It is time for me to stop being politely angry.

I love my husband. So very much. I've loved ninety percent of my journey as a military spouse. As mentioned in my previous blog, no one forced me to wear my many hats. I chose them. I chose to be a military spouse, and every step of my husband's military journey has been a partnership between us. I have profited in so many ways from the military lifestyle and I own it as part of what has made me who I am today.

But that man at that party is one of hundreds who've come along in my journey. I'm weary of the one-sided conversations at events, where the questions are focused on what my husband does and the conversation is basically mansplaining about the world I live, work and and breathe in...and have done so for most of my life. I'm weary of standing and smiling and listening politely while my insides are boiling with rage.

Thankfully there have also been many male friends at many events that were and are not that drunken jerk. If you are a man and have made it this far in this blog, thank you. On this International Women's Day I salute you for being open minded.

I challenge those few of you here to think about the small talk you make with female military spouses. Ask them about their work. Ask them about their aspirations. Discuss their leadership and their worlds. You'll find that they are fascinating. They are passionate and hard-working and worth your effort.

And for my female readers, military spouses and otherwise, you have every right to be angry--without politeness. It's time to challenge the misogyny. You deserve respect. Your service does help your spouse to succeed but the converse is also true--their support helps you to be successful in your own endeavors.

Being a military spouse does not give anyone the right to treat you without decency.

Be angry.

Demand respect.

And be proud of who you are.

Brenda

Fifty

 

Hi, my name is Brenda and I am fifty years old. 

Midlife. Five freaking decades old.

The thing about turning fifty in pandemic is you have a lot of time to think. Maybe too much time. Fifty is a turning point. A reckoning. Not only was this the year I turned fifty, but it was supposed to be the stepping off point for our youngest—the third of three—and the year my husband and I rediscovered our relationship. After twenty-four years of marriage, far too many moves, and a whole lot of chaos and sacrifice, this was going to be the year the roller coaster levelled out. A return to stability. A year of rediscovery and growth.

Ha.

Hahahaha.

Hahahahahaha!

HA!

Yes, the universe had other plans.

What happened instead was a blessing in very questionable clothing.

Not only did we get to spend a bonus year with our youngest, but we got to see our middlest grow into his own skin while studying and working under our roof. We watched our oldest live up to the challenge of living apart from us as an adult. We had family suppers again. We talked on the phone. We Zoomed. Like so many others we stayed home, looked inward and relearned some family boundaries.

But while we were re-exploring our family we, something else was happening.

Fifty year old me was flailing.

If you follow me on any of my social media pages you’ll have figured out that I spent a big chunk of the past year with my daughter(s) looking out over the edge of the earth from our cottage on Prince Edward Island. Before I go any further, I want to say that I know how lucky I am to have had this refuge, and even more lucky to have the ability and the cross-border approval to get there. I truly, truly wish others could have the same option.

Anyway, in March when the world was going to crap, my daughter and I drove the eighteen hours to our cottage, stopping only for gas on the way, and got across the Confederation Bridge just hours before they shut it down for weeks.

March at our little beach cottage on the Island is about as isolated as it gets. It was just me, my youngest, the foxes and the crows, with a quiet (but lovely) neighbor who kept to herself. There was snow, wind, rain and worry. Worry that I’d made the wrong choice to come there. Worry about my husband and son who were far, far away in a different country in a pandemic. Worry for my other daughter and my parents and family and friends. Worry that someone would judge our American license plates and, in their very real fear, act violently against myself or worse—my daughter.

So much worry.

As a Canadian who has given almost two thirds of my life to my country both in my own uniform and in support of my husband and others in uniform, living there on the edge of the world, as I approached the end of my forties brought on huge crisis of identity.

If I’m not from here…where am I from? What do I want to do with my life? Where is home?

Who am I?

Then one of those days, after a long week of working virtually and dealing with the worry, I started reading Brené Brown’s 10^th Anniversary Edition of The Gifts of Imperfection. In her Preface, she talks about her own reckoning with mid-life. She says:

People may call what happens at midlife “a crisis”, but it’s not. It’s an unraveling—a time when you feel a desperate pull to live the life you want to live, not the one you’re “supposed” to live. The unraveling is a time when you are challenged by the universe to let go of who you think you are supposed to be and to embrace who you are.

I read that sentence and burst into tears.

Really. I’m not kidding. Full on meltdown.

In the silent, hidden way that a mother cries knowing her seventeen-year-old daughter is upstairs doing virtual schoolwork in a pandemic, I sat there and bawled. Ugly-cried. I wanted to yell out loud like Charlie Brown—“That’s IT!” I wanted to call Brené Brown and tell her thank you for putting it so clearly, and for reading my emotional temperature better than I can myself.

I was unraveling. I AM unraveling.

Oh my god, I’ve been living how I’m supposed to be for sooooo long. My hats are my own but I’ve been wearing them because that was what I thought I was supposed to do. No one forced me to wear them. At any time I could have said, no thank you…I don’t think that’s me. But I’ve been wearing them anyway and they are freaking heavy. My shoulders are weary.

And I’m just…tired.

Sitting there in that quiet cottage overlooking the ocean I realized it’s up to me to examine each and every hat I wear. Some of them will stay on my head. Some of them will be put aside, in case I need them again.

And some of them I will unravel, and build something different.

The hat that I am showing you now is one I’ve dusted off now and again, but I realize, after a year of thinking and reading and doing, that I need this hat.

I am a writer. And I need to write. 

I am a creator. And I need to create.

Sometimes my military spouse hat has meant that I have not been true to that need. For some reason in the past, I thought my opinions would be harmful—for my husband’s career, for my family, for me. I was afraid to show my true self because it might be construed the wrong way.

But the thing is, after more than thirty years of serving my beautiful country in the best way I think I can, there are very few people that have that foundation—that reality. And if I’m going to be true to myself, sometimes my opinions will be different. That’s okay.

As long as I’m authentic, and honest and true, I know now that writing—even difficult, controversial writing—is what I need to do.

Unraveling isn’t easy. I’m a knitter and I hate ‘frogging’ something I worked on. It’s painful. And the past few months have been hard for me, and for everyone. They’re still hard.

But the good thing is now I have a ball of yarn to create something beautiful with. 

I’m starting with this blog. It’s been forgotten. As I lost myself under the weight of my hats and life in general, I’ve found that writing is super hard. Finishing my latest manuscript has been a long slog.

So I’m starting here. Just a few words when I can. A few thoughts as I journey forward.

I hope you'll continue to join me here as I do.

Brenda

Military Monday: You Know You Are a Military Spouse WHEN... (for June)

After this morning's Facebook post (which, by the way was entirely serious) I thought I'd sit down and write out a Dunne list of military spouse-isms for the end of June. Feel free to add yours in the comments!

You know you are a military spouse when...

1. You see a moving truck pull into your subdivision and you have a minor panic attack.

Are we posted? Did I forget to put it on the calendar? But I just finished unpacking! Is someone I know moving? NO! They can't leave! I like them!

You get the picture.

2. You start packing for your next move and realize you have ten boxes you still haven't unpacked from the last move.

OH! That's where that pair of shoes went! I've been looking for them for three years! And...oops. I don't think that ham sandwich was intended to be packed in the foyer closet box...eeeewww.

3. You're filling out the criminal record check forms so you can coach your 4 y.o. son's soccer team, and you have to look up postal codes for three places to put in the 'List addresses for the past 5 years' section.

Not lying. I had to do that two weeks ago for a different summer activity.

4. You decide to file your kid's report cards properly (for a change) and realize last year's report card is still in a box. Somewhere.

Remember those ten boxes? My advice is to start looking in the bottom one.

5. You give up trying to find last year's (insert summer item here) and just buy a new one. 

It probably was broken/wouldn't fit, anyway.

6. You start looking at real estate websites in random locations, because you know you're likely posted next year. 

I am addicted to the multi-listing service (MLS). Just the whisper of potential postings sends me in a frenzy of home shopping. This year is no exception. And no, we aren't moving...yet.

7. You could wallpaper your house with rainbows of those little moving company stickers. 

Yep. Been there.

8. You know what FIGMO* stands for.

I--not lying--explained this acronym to one of my civilian co-workers this past week. She'd never heard of it. I enlightened her and she totally agreed she was FIGMO. :)

9. You are FIGMO.

Even if you didn't work during this post. You get that June feeling. You know, the THANK GOD SCHOOL IS FINISHED FOR A FEW MONTHS, feeling. Or maybe you're glad to be leaving your job too...and going along with your spouse. There's something so freeing about moving to a totally new place with a new job and new potential friends.


10. June is a happy-sad-stressful month.

See number 1. Who is leaving? Who is moving in? Where are you going? Where is your spouse heading on exercise? How are you going to deal with kids leaving their friends?

Looking ahead to moving and having friends move is emotionally draining. Actually June is draining.

Take heart. August is only a few months away.


Brenda


*FIGMO= F*@# It, Got My Orders.