Hell In High Heels

In 30 days my husband will have his Retirement Ceremony celebrating his 24 years of service and “piping him ashore”. Of those 24 years, I have been a part of more than 15 of them. I have survived deployments, deaths, tax audits, lightning actually hitting my house, losing his dad, losing my dad, losing a child, almost losing my life because of pregnancy complications, a very high risk pregnancy, having my husband on another continent when 9/11 happened, moving …wait lemme think….8? times in 15 years, mandatory fun command events, and all of the general life wtfwasthat that typically happens in your 20’s and 30’s.

I’ve taken kids to the ER for staples in their head (trampoline accident), stitches in their forehead (don’t run through hardwood floors on wet feet), a broken collar bone (don’t run up a cement wall right next to a steel pole), bronchitis, infections, and other assorted kid ickies. I’ve been in the ER more times than I can count. I’ve had 5 surgeries, including a friggin hip replacement and recovered from almost all of them without my husband there because he had to go save some other part of the planet.

Two of my kids have graduated and moved out on their own, one off to begin his own Navy career . I’ve lost friends and made friends. My kids have lost friends and made lifelong friends. They’ve had to put up with more than I ever wanted them to, but they’ve also learned they’re stronger than they thought they were.

We have survived an entire Navy career, and I did a great deal of it in heels.

Navy balls, Khaki balls, Birthday balls, Dining outs, Formal events, Semi-formal events, Graduations, you name it and it requires cute shoes.

Now I’m down to the final hurdle. The final event. I did not want to turn retirement into a production, but hubs wanted to “pass the watch” down to our son as he begins his career and my husband ends his. So we’re having a retirement ceremony and are up to our eyeballs in family planning trips to be here for it and trying to get my son out of A school for 2 days to be here. The whole things has morphed into a monster…

…kind of like my MIL. And if you tell her I said that, I’ll deny it.

We’re down to the final thing and I’m trying to survive it.

Send Xanax. And maybe some cute shoes.

Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?

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