Moving Military Kids

April was the month of the military child, and I planned to put up a post about my military kids at some point, but suddenly it’s May. And we're in the middle of another move. 

I hear a lot this time of year about how amazing our military kids are. And that’s true. They are resilient, courageous, and resourceful. But you know what else? They are also just kids. And we ask a lot of them. This is our eldest’s fourth move, and he is eight. That is fairly normal for military kids, if not on the low side. That means four times, he has said goodbye to his church, his neighborhood, and his friends. Four times, he has watched his entire home be packed up and taken somewhere new. Four times, he has started over again, making new friends, trying out new foods, exploring new places. Four times (more than that, really), his dad’s job has changed dramatically, which causes a marked shift in our family life. This is not unusual for military kids.

The highlight of temporary housing for Twinkles:
joining Trigger in the kennel.

I’ve seen the effects of stress on our kids more than usual this time around. One of my children had two a day accidents for two weeks until we started loading the trailer, at which point things went right back to normal. Two of my children responded to move month by refusing to listen to anything I said (it made for a fun last few weeks—ears seem to be mostly functional again). Early bedtimes have been resumed due to an uptick in meltdowns, tears, and in-fighting. Flexibility is up. Normalcy is down. Last minute changes (and last minute emergencies) are king. This is move month for the military kid.

Road trip stops

Doing it right

Move month is also Littles hanging out with his dad while the movers load the truck. It is teaching the kids how to say goodbye well. It’s having the Bigs help me take pictures off the walls, and Littles informing me that taping nails to the backs of frames is his favorite part of moving. It’s telling Bruiser every day how much longer until we leave to see grandparents. It’s getting in extra snuggles with all the kids and extra family time since the Man isn’t at work. It’s being blessed by neighbors and friends who want to see you one last time or bring you a meal because they remember how tiring it can be to move. It’s taking down bed frames and realizing that your kids are disgusting because no matter how many times you’ve vacuumed their room, they still manage to hoard stickers, old bandaids, and half eaten, pilfered biscotti behind their bunk beds. It is surviving broken dryers, flooded lodging, changed plans, long hours in the car, and each other's sometimes shortened tempers.

Sometimes you make use of deserted parking lots to
get a little scootering in while the baby nurses.

Moving is exhausting

Move month is a chance for these kids to grow and learn and explore…and receive extra cuddles because their hearts are feeling a little tender even if they’re excited about what’s next. I’m thankful for my military children, not because they are super human but because they are mine. They’ve greatly enriched my experience of being married to military, and I hope that they will love the way they’ve gotten to grow up. I know it’s not necessarily normal. But then again, because of it, neither are they.

Painting over Paintings

The Man is at the house hanging out with the packers as they box everything up, and I'm at temporary lodging listen to the kids play a very loud game of pretend that involves a set of rolling ottomans and probably imminent death. This is moving. Moving is also going back to the "old house" at least twelve different times for all the things I've forgotten (Tim's Atlanta Braves cap, the dog lead, the french press), frozen waffles (that the kids inform me are better than the ones I make homemade), squeezing in last minute stuff (like a half marathon, a women's retreat, and more time with friends), and trying to keep suitcases from exploding all over lodging (a near impossible feat).

This time, though, the biggest symbol of our move was painting over the "mural" in our living room. 2.5 years ago when we moved here, we discovered that half the walls were concrete and utterly immune to my attempts to hang pictures. I got a concrete drill bit and that worked in some places, but the living room wall refused to comply. Finally, I talked the Man into making a date night out of splashing some water based paint on the wall. I then spent the next few days taping off what I wanted, scrubbing off the rest, and adding a border to make it look like there was actual planning involved. It became a conversation piece every time we had guests over and really defined our living room. It became a happy memory for me of painting with the Man. It also helped me work through some of the sorrow I felt about my miscarriage and our latest move. And if you don't understand how splashing paint on a wall can help you process grief, I can't help you.

When I painted over it, all those memories came rushing back, and not just the memories but how they made me feel. I remembered both the laughter and the grief...and felt a little overwhelmed by how much there was of both of those even as we prepare to head to our 5th home in ten years. It took three coats of paint to cover up, and I left behind a plain white wall that the next tenants can break a drill bit on in their fervor for hanging paintings.

I may have cried a little bit, but as the Man said: there will be other walls to paint. There will be other memories to make. Other ways to remember. Other fun date nights. Other griefs that remind us of God's goodness. And we may paint over our favorite murals, but it doesn't actually get rid of them. It just puts them under a couple layers of paint, saving them for an archaeologist to find some day or--and this is more likely--preserving them (and the pen scribbles one of your artistic children added when you weren't looking) in your mind--and on your wall--forever. Even if you're the only one who remembers that they're there.