My life is all about stinky boys.

Today I'm starting a blog to let everyone in on the secret goings-on in a house filled with field gear, meat, and my GOSH did I mention the dirty diapers. I knew when I married Matt that the military was going to be a large part of our lives, but it turns out it has a tendency to dominate even the smallest of daily events- (kind of the way kids do, but we'll get to that later). To make things quick, the US Marine Corps has landed us in San Diego, 29 Palms, and finally in North Carolina, where we currently live. Matt's been everywhere from Iraq, to Kuwait, to Italy, to Germany, to Hawaii and Alaska... like thirty-something different countries and almost every state in the union. He's trained in foreign & domestic weaponry, navigation, shooting, escape & evasion, urban warfare, insane stunt moves while driving... mostly how to kill people without being killed yourself- a dream come true for any man's man. He's achieved amazing feats and set records wherever he's gone, and has earned the respect of nearly all who have worked with him. But you really get to know him when you see him around his kids.
Our oldest son, Jesse, will be turning two in July. He's... busy. I've heard the phrase "God bless the mothers of little boys," and Jesse has brought me to a higher understanding of that very idea. Many women have big plans to properly rear their children: I'll wake them at seven and have them bathed, dressed, fed and ready for the day by eight. I'll have gotten up beforehand to shower, dress, style my hair, apply makeup and prepare a healthy breakfast. After a civilized meal throughout which the children sing me songs of praise, we'll all gather for learning time to review the alphabet, numbers, and memorize the abbreviations on the periodic table of elements... Well, good for them. My life is different.
When Jesse was born we had scheduled an induction, and his dad was to arrive from Japan the day before. Jesse had other plans. I went into labor in the middle of the night, literally the very minute I finished finalizing my preparations for the birth. (At least he gave me a head start in that department.) Not long after I got to the hospital my water was broken and the baby went into distress. Two grandparental heart attacks and less than three minutes later we had a healthy baby boy, thanks to a no-nonsense doctor and a big scalpel. Joy of joys, our boy had arrived. Before his father. Had we known this was a foreshadowing of how things would be run in our family, we might have tried to pawn him off on some unsuspecting couple in Wal-Mart who thought he was cute. Oh well.
So he HAD to be held, nursed every hour, and was walking by seven months. Not to mention Dad had to go back to Japan after the birth and didn't return till five months later, what fun. Oh- and let's not forget the cross country move we then made in Matt's grandpa's old truck for three days, while Jesse was sick and couldn't keep anything down, and was also going through the lovable "I HATE my car seat," phase. It was lots of fun cause the air conditioner wasn't working, Matt was cranky, and the truck door actually fell off. But we made it, eventually, to what would be our new home, Camp Lejeune. We managed to buy a house just before the lease was up on our rental, and moved again. Ourselves. With a (newly walking!) baby. 'Nuff said.

And I was pregnant. We found out just before the move. Believe me, there were many seemingly-endless nights of "Why did I do this again? What was I thinking?! I change my mind!!! I have to puke..." Then a while later one fat, sweaty, pregnant Sunday afternoon, my water broke. But this time was a little different. We weren't packed, the car seat wasn't ready, and when we finally brought our little Gabriel home he was wearing nothing but a diaper and a size 24-month, white, short-sleeved onesie. In January. Hey, at least Dad was there this time to "comfort" (read: neglect and ignore) me throughout the surgery. I guess my bloody uterus was more interesting than my face at the time. Again I say, oh well. (I find myself saying that a lot these days.)

So this is my life, three pooping male children of varying ages. And it's the best thing in the world. To you traditional good wives and mothers I say: you must be bored to tears. -And that's certainly something I never am.

There are times I sit and watch my husband lovingly tell the baby what a nasty fart-faced monster he is, as Jesse runs screaming into the room with a glass mug and beams Matt over the head, thus initiating the first of the day's wrestling matches. I smile as I dream of the vision I once had: me in my apron, Dad in his robe, the little ones playing quietly on the floor, all together in front of the fire sipping warm mugs of hot cocoa and reading the paper on a Sunday morning. I am awakened from my daydream when a sticky piece of fruit roll up hits me in the face and stays there. It's then I realize we're a half hour late for church and we're all in our underwear (or diapers, as the case may be) and I still haven't showered or ironed Matt's shirt. We make it to church just after they stop serving the sacrament. We listen to the talks as best we can while trying in vain to keep the baby quiet and doing our darnedest to distract Jesse from his vigorous flirting with the girls in the pew behind us. Toward the end of the meeting I realize the fruit roll up is still on my face and I pick it off, leaving a nice red stain across my chin to greet the teachers as I take Jesse into nursery. But I don't give it a second thought; I know these people understand.