Turn on the Hose…

At our last duty station, we owned a farmhouse on 5 wooded acres. It was our own patch of paradise, and we raised many animals there. Early on, we had some of the land cleared, fenced, and sowed grass for a pasture.

My son was 4 when our Shetland pony and donkey (both rescues) arrived in the back of a trailer, and were turned loose into their new home. 

We spent time in the pasture every day: shoveling manure into a wheelbarrow, bringing them hay, filling their water trough, and just giving them time and attention. The Shetland was often cranky (as my daddy, who was raised on a farm, warned that any pony would be).

The donkey, named Eeyore, was more like a golden retriever. My son could ride him bareback, with nothing but a halter. Eeyore was slow and steady, continually lowering his head to my son’s level for a good scratch on the forehead.

Despite the already excellent company, we often had other critters to visit in the pasture, too. 

A low spot held water after summer storms (which we got often) and at night, our whole property echoed with the calls of bullfrogs. Our giant pasture puddles, often 6 to 8 inches deep in the center, became cradles to hundreds of tadpoles. 

The tadpoles were a source of endless fascination to my son, and he often waded into the puddles in his rainboots, catching the largest of them in his cupped hands for a closer look. 

Sometimes, days would slip by without any rain at all, and our tadpole pond would begin to shrink. 

Almost unnoticeable at first, it escalated quickly, until the giant puddle would dwindle into three or four smaller ones, separated from what had once been a collective whole. 

On those days, my 4-year-old would come running up to me as I was doing farm chores in the yard, and breathlessly announce: “I need the hose!”

I’d help him drag the hose from the side of the house out into the pasture, and he’d pump well water into those tadpole puddles, adding precious inches of water to their dwindling nurseries.

He understood that if the puddles dried up, the tadpoles would die.

We had plenty of water at the house – why wouldn’t we share with them? 

In times of drought, a week or more would go by with us pulling the hose out every afternoon, pushing back the inevitable demise of all those little tadpoles.

I waited for him to lose interest in them, or to forget. 

He never did. 

Eventually, rain would come, swelling the puddles into a tiny pond once more, and he would splash among them happily, content to see their homes restored.

I’m not sure how many tadpoles were saved by my curious, empathetic 4-year-old, (how could I be?) but I know the true number would be staggering.

We lived on those 5 acres for four years, and it was formative for his childhood – but I took plenty of lessons with me from the farmhouse, as well. 

Here’s the one the tadpole’s taught me: Know when to turn on the hose. 

It is inevitable that those of us living in military families face unique challenges.

We may expect them, even think that we understand them, but each can be draining, in its own way.

PCS cycles, deployments and work-trips, re-building communities and careers… these challenges test the mettle of even the most seasoned of spouses. 

When the puddles that sustain us begin to shrink, and outside forces challenge our ability to function in a healthy way, it’s important to recognize when it’s time to turn on the hose. 

For our friends, of course, and our family, but also for ourselves. Most of us know the signs, even if we recognize them more easily in others than we do in ourselves.

We know how it feels to be overwhelmed, stretched thin, and for the burdens to mount without warning, and without an end in sight.

So, bring the cookies. Attend the playdate. Go get the lunch, or the coffee. Ask if you can babysit. Invite them to supper. 

Turn on the hose. 

This can be harder accept for ourselves, especially when the spouse who bears the worst of the load is often the last to ask for help. Many of us have conditioned ourselves to see offers of help as affirmations of our own weakness. 

But sometimes, you need to let someone else turn on the hose for you, too. It doesn’t make you weak. It takes courage to ask for help. It takes grit to be vulnerable. 

And if you must, know when to turn on the hose for yourself.

When you’re brand new at a duty station and you don’t know anyone yet, or when your friends have all gone and you’re the last one to depart… 

Turn on the hose. It’s a lesson that extends far beyond pasture ponds and tadpoles. 

*FOR MORE FROM KACI, VISIT HER AT OUR BLOG HOMEPAGE.