It may sound crazy, but reverse culture shock is a real phenomenon. I experienced it when I returned from China in ’97, and it is on my mind as we prepare for my husband’s homecoming from his deployment to Iraq.

The most peculiar outing that recall when I got back from China was going to the grocery store. Colored ketchup hit the market in full force while I was away, and I was dumbfounded by the condiment aisle. Honestly, who the h3ll needs PURPLE or GREEN ketchup? It’s marketed toward kids, but seriously – if a parent placates their kids’ whims to the point of ketchup color, then I feel for them when they have to put their foot down on really important issues. But, I digress.

At the grocery store in Jinan, the city where I lived and taught, you may or may not find ketchup when you go. It might be there one week, but the next week – tough luck. It either is, or it isn’t. If it is, then lucky you! You buy whatever red bottle you find, because you can’t read the label anyway, so it doesn’t matter what brand it is. If it isn’t there, then you just kick yourself for not buying two bottles last time and suck it up.

There were numerous other hiccups as I learned to re-acclimate myself – most of them positive, but all of them took some getting used to: different city sounds, AIR CONDITIONING, driving and catching myself in mid-sentence because I forgot what word I was about to say (yes, in English) come to mind as examples.

With the exception of a break at Thanksgiving and another one at Christmas before they left the States for Iraq, my husband has been away since early November. I do realize and appreciate the fact that even though it has been a long time, it hasn’t been as long as some other military families have endured, so I recognize their sacrifice. Still, much has happened in nine months. He missed the bulk of the school year and many of the routines that we instilled during that time. I’ve tried to keep him posted on the goings-on here at the homefront, but getting back in the swing of things in person may not be easy.

He’s used to sharing a CHU with one other guy and eating in a mess hall with dozens. What will it be like to be surrounded by five kids clamoring for attention and not getting made-to-order omelettes for breakfast? (I don’t believe that he’s loony enough to think he’ll be served a full breakfast every day, but it’s just an example.)

He’s used to a daily routine; this much is true, but it’s his routine. He hasn’t been responsible to get two kids to one camp, another kid to a different camp and the little two to preschool … all in the same commute. And that’s just one week, because next week, Nos. 1 & 2 might go to a different daycamp, while No. 3 goes back to the one he was at two weeks ago … you get the picture. This school year will be especially interesting, because we will have THREE campuses to cover. Everyone will be in “big school” this year, so that’s five backpacks to check, five homework folders to sign, five Meet-the-Teachers, five lunches &/or lunch $ to distribute, 25 sets of clothes to wash and set out (or monitor the setting out thereof) and five reasons to get out of bed for a drink/light/nightmare/just-one-more-hug.

And, let’s not forget that inevitable field trip tomorrow that the kid forgot to mention, so not only is his required class shirt dirty, but he also needs to pack a sack lunch, and you are out of bread.

Um, yeah – it will take some re-acclimating, I’m sure.

My oldest two sons went to their first boy-girl dance this summer at Operation Purple camp. I’m still getting over the shock that they are getting to the age of being interested in girls. I asked them how it went, and they described the typical junior high dance floor: boys on one side, girls on the other.

J. said, “I didn’t have the nerve to ask anyone, but he did!” and pointed to his brother.

A. just shrugged. I probed for more info and asked if she put her arms on his shoulders or how they danced, and he held his arms out in front of him to demonstrate: “We just held hands and kinda swayed like this.” I pictured the nice expanse of personal space bubble between them and felt relieved.

Then one of them turned to the other and said, “You know, next time, we should, like, pack a Polo shirt or something so we will look nice.” OMG – my boys care about their appearance?! When did this happen?

A week or so later, I learned from my mom that they also asked her advice about how to ask a girl to dance. They are determined to be prepared next time. 😉

My dad was in town visiting this week, and while I was telling him about the boys’ summer adventures, I mentioned the camp dance. A. walked in the room, and I bragged on him for being brave enough to ask a girl to dance. My dad teased him, “Well, did you kiss her?”

A. shot him a rolling-eyes look and said emphatically, “Paw Paw! I think that’s a bit out of line for a kid my age!”

I agreed and told him that he could continue thinking that way!!

I’ve heard the horror stories – the woeful tales of soldiers en route back home, only to be diverted and redirected to another deployment. I’ve heard of those who were nearing the end of their deployment, only to learn that their time was extended w/o a break to come home.

As bad as those scenarios sound, those stories always sounded far-off to me. Today, it hit too close to home. Today, the far-fetched doesn’t seem so unlikely.

When my husband first told me of the rumors that some folks were going home early from Iraq, we knew better than to get our hopes up – and especially not to tell the kids. I know of friends and friends of friends who’ve had soldiers return home early as part of the big “draw down” effort in Iraq, but until we knew something more concrete, we didn’t want to get our hopes up.

Well, apparently, even concrete shifts.

Part of me says that there’s nothing I can do about it, so it’s pointless to be mad, but another part of me is #)($&#* irritated that I dared to get my hopes up. I’m sad that we got the kids’ hopes up, too, and I’m going to have to be the one to let them down. I’m frustrated that we made reservations for a family vacation before school starts, and they are excited about going.

Sigh.

Why even tell the soldiers that they’re coming home, if the Army is going to tell them two days before they go to the airfield (he’s already been packing and has probably already sent some belongings home in the mail that he said wouldn’t fit in his bag) that they are being delayed indefinitely?

Oh, by the way – we were kidding about the going home early thing. Not only is your flight canceled this week, but you might not be going home early at all. Come to think of it, you might not even get to take your leave time that was originally scheduled for late August, anyway, because you are most likely (he says “high 90s” percentage chance) being relocated to Afghanistan for the remainder of your tour.

And people wonder why soldiers come home with PTSD, among myriad other behavioral health issues?!

Explain that one to me, Mr. Commander in Chief – is that how you plan to “draw down” forces in Iraq … by relocating them to #)($&@^%* Afghanistan?!?!?!?!?! What the heck is that all about?

*deep breath*

I could tell something was wrong in his voice. I actually thought someone had died, the way he spoke so solemnly. I don’t have the heart to tell the kids yet. I guess I’ll wait for another chunk of concrete to break off.

The 5yos were on a creative spree in the car this morning, and they shared some ideas about what jobs and cars they would like to have when they grow up. I’ll try to paraphrase, as best I can recall:

Ry: “When I grow up, I’m going to have a limo and paint it gold. It’s gonna have pirates – no, skulls – painted on it. And also fire-flames.”

Ri: “I’m going to buy a Traverse just like yours, only it won’t be the same color, and the seats will be different, and it’ll be bigger.”

Ry: “I’m going to be an artist and a builder-man and play a ‘lectric guitar.”

Ri: “I’m going to be a concert singer.”

I said to both of them, “That sounds neat, but I thought you wanted to go into the Army.”

Ri answered, “Yeah, I’m gonna do that, too.”

Do you have any childhood memories where the details are a bit fuzzy, but you specifically remember the emotion of the event? Allow me to share such a story:

One Fourth of July (I don’t think it was New Year’s Eve, b/c it wasn’t cold), my mom and I were sitting on the trunk of the car in the driveway and watching my brother and dad pop fireworks in the street. I already had a healthy respect for fireworks and preferred to keep my distance. I could be cajoled into lighting a sparkler, but that was about it. I had no interest in things that caught fire, exploded, or flew through the air.

I would run away as soon as I lit the fuse on a package of Blackcats, for cryin’ out loud. My little brother Nathan, on the other hand, had no fear. He would take part in bottle rocket contests with my boyfriend and his brothers to see who could launch them the farthest while holding the stem of the rocket! (This was the same kid who blew up things in the mailbox just to hear the kaboom and made God-only-knows-what in 2L bottles to launch in the street. It was Phineas & Ferb stuff, of course; he didn’t do it maliciously. He could have been a chemist or ordnance specialist, if he wanted to.)

Anyway, back to the story at hand. I was sitting on the trunk of the car, minding my own business – probably daydreaming about marrying Kirk Cameron or some such nonsense, when a wayward spinning bee (whatever it was called) decided to fly sideways – straight at my face!

I think I ducked; I don’t recall it actually hitting me (thus, the whole emotional memory vs. details). It did, however, solidify my intense fear of fireworks. So, although the boys are disappointed that we can’t pop fireworks within the city limits, I’m not the least bit upset about it. If the weather holds out, then we might go downtown tonight to see the display over the river. I’ll admit that fireworks are quite pretty … from a distance.

Last summer, we had a family meeting to brainstorm behavior and consequences. The boys all had input about what should be expected of them and punishments for misbehavior. They helped to decide what behaviors should result in a time-out, have privileges taken away, spanking, write lines, etc. That discussion was helpful for everyone, b/c there were fewer surprises when someone got in trouble – they knew what was coming to them.

Still, it seemed like we needed something more visible where they could see their progress beyond the moment. I was finding, especially with the younger ones, that they would get in trouble and then repeat the same sort of behavior and hour or two later. The almost-7yo actually cried to me (after the third offense in as many hours), “Can’t you give me just ONE more chance?!” I decided that he needed to be able to see how his behavior compounded over the course of the day.

Enter paperclip points.

The 10yo and I sat down one evening after the others were in bed and devised a pro & con list of behaviors. The “plus” list had a few gimme items, like brushing teeth without being reminded and spending time playing with the dogs, but most of the list entailed above-and-beyond tasks or voluntary acts of kindness (like sharing w/o being asked or offering to help someone). The “minus” list included things like hogging games/toys, screaming at someone and leaving dirty clothes on the floor.

We reviewed the list with the other four to be sure that everyone understood what the points stood for, then I announced the weekly totals:

• 5 points (Everyone starts at this level, so it’s the baseline): Get to stay up 1 hr late on Friday night
• 10 points: Get to camp out (sleeping bags on the floor, etc.) on Friday night
• 15 points (Only valid if ALL five boys earn 15 points): Donuts for breakfast on Sat or Sun – Mom’s choice 😉
• 20 points: $2 (You should’ve heard the cheers! lol)
• 25 points: $5 (You thought the first cheers were excited?!)
• Highest point earner: Gets 30 min of uninterrupted, one-player video game time (unanimous whoops)
• Lowest point-earner: Has to do poop patrol in the backyard on the weekend (unanimous groans)

We’re in the middle of the first week, but so far, it’s going well. The almost-7yo was down to zero paperclips this morning, but he has since earned one back. The 9yo has been amazing, and while I realize it’s largely self-serving, I’m still relishing in the good behavior. I overheard him talking to No. 3 in the hallway as they were counting paperclip chains on the rope that I strung across the coat rack: “It’s ok; I know you can earn them back. You can do it; I know you can.” The 5yos have gotten clever, too – one of them told me when I picked them up today, “I shared my Play-Doh with a friend today, so can I have a paperclip?”

So, if you catch a monkey boy in an act of kindness, please be sure to let me know … the best paperclips are those earned unintentionally.

I loathe annual performance reviews. I have been on both sides of the desk, and I don’t enjoy them from either perspective. They remind me of statewide standardized tests: yes, it’s important that we have a benchmark for performance, but there could very well be a better way to go about it.

I don’t like having to rank myself (or my staff) on a scale, because I don’t think the whole year can always neatly be summarized on a scale of 1-5. We all “need improvement,” even if we’ve had a “good” year with “exceptional” moments.

Thankfully, my boss is pretty communicative, and I think that if there were any glaring concerns, then I would already know about them, and the annual review wouldn’t be a surprise. Unfortunately, I know a lot of folks who don’t have great bosses, and they dread review time even more than I do.

My office suite is very cozy, so it’s a good thing the four of us get along well. As a supervisor, I try to address potential problems as they arise and not wait for it to hit the fan. I’m not a perfect boss (or employee), but I think that I have a very good relationship with my team, and we have pretty open communication with each other. (It’s hard not to have open communication when you are within paperwad-throwing distance from one another.)

I don’t have a better solution to offer for annual performance reviews at the moment; I just needed to vent. Now, I must get some sleep so that I’ll be ready for mine at 8:30am. Ugh.

P.S. I just read this draft aloud to my hubby in Iraq via Skype, and he said, “The Army would say that you can’t complain about a system until you are prepared to offer an alternative for improvement.” lol. Tell the Army that this is my blog, and I’ll say whatever I want to. So there.

Do you recall that episode of The Brady Bunch when Mrs. Brady has a fender bender in a parking lot and ends up in court over it? The other driver fakes a neck injury, but they don’t really know if Carol is at fault until Mr. Brady drops a briefcase in the courtroom, causing the “injured” person to look sideways – something he wouldn’t be able to do with a legit neck brace.

I’ve felt kinda like that the past couple of weeks. You get dragged into other people’s drama, and you don’t really know what to believe. The circumstantial evidence looks damning, yet your gut says otherwise. It’s a quandary.

I can’t really talk about the situation in detail, because it isn’t my tale to tell. However, I would like to ask you to join me in prayer about it. My heart is burdened for the Truth … not just convenient answers … not just a corroborating story that will fit the mold … the Truth, the whole Truth and nothing but the Truth.

I told you last week that I was starting karate. Well, that first day went well, and we would normally go twice a week, but then we had to miss a couple of classes while we were passing around the stomach bug. Consequently, tonight was my second class.

Would you believe that we were SPARRING on my second day??

Sparring is basically structured fighting. I told my lil’ blue belt that I was nervous, and he said, “Don’t be! We’ll go easy on you.” LOL – Gee, thanks! Actually, it went fine. We rotated partners, and I was paired with two black belts, a green belt, an orange belt, and I was even matched with my lil’ blue and purple belts, in turn. Sparring against my own kids was a little awkward at first, until I remembered that they are several levels ahead of me, so the odds of actually hurting my child during the exercise were slim. Even if I goofed on a technique and threw a wild punch, they are trained to block it reflexively. The advanced belts also know to adjust their practice based on the belt level and size of their sparring partner, so it was all good.

I was still nervous about actually swinging a punch or kicking someone (and vice-versa), but the advanced belts encouraged me to actually follow through on the strikes and kicks … ie, really try to hit them. (I should mention that we were all in pads & other protective gear!!)

All things considered, one of the black belts told me after class that I did really well for a white belt. Talk about boosting my ego!

Speaking of my ego –  along with every other muscle, joint and cell in my body – it’s exhausted. G’night!

I found out today that I’ve been accepted into the Doctor of Public Administration (DPA) program at Valdosta State University in Georgia! In case you’re just tuning in and haven’t heard me going on & on about this for months, it’s an accredited, distance-learning program that is flexible enough to accommodate working adults. Valdosta is part of the University System of Georgia. I’m jazzed about it and can’t wait to start classes. They only admit 25 students each year (fall term).

I told the boys the news and got high-fives for my enthusiasm, but they didn’t really seem to care much about the degree. I tried to explain that you can have a “doctor” degree without being a medical doctor. I said that this degree, for instance, will help me know all about how organizations and governments operate (perhaps not the best description, but it worked for them).

My oldest looked up from the hand-held video game he was playing, shrugged and said, “I’d rather be, like, a vet doctor or something.” 🙂  This is coming from the kid who says that he wants to be the first person to walk on Mars.

This Lumberjack-turned-Bear is now going to be a Blazer!