In our life in the military, separation is nothing new. We’re apart during trainings, schools, TDY’s, field exercises and that dreaded “D” world. But though Jason and I have been married almost thirteen years, we’ve never been separated by choice.

That’s about to change.

We’re about to be separated for eight months, or even longer, and for the first time.

And, it’s not the Army pulling us apart.

We’re crossing the year-mark of fostering our youngest daughter, and her situation is anything but settled. We’ve always said we would not leave her behind if we came down on PCS orders.

And , now,  it’s time to put our money where our mouth is. Next week, Jason will leave for a course in-route on his PCS. I will stay behind in New York with our children.

Saying “we’re going to stay behind,” sounds so romantic in theory. It’s anything but in reality.

Jason’s prepping me just like he’s leaving for a deployment. I have a new Power of Attorney, the cars have been serviced, the snow-blowers are ready to battle yet another Fort Drum winter that I thought I’d never see. We’re trying to figure out how to juggle three hockey teams for the four boys, along with the complicated schedule that comes along with our sweet Little Miss. We’re trying to plan ahead toward writing deadlines and book releases on my side of the work aisle and trips home on his.

But we’re doing this all with no idea of what actual timeline we’re working with. For someone who likes to plan things out, you know, like a little thing like a cross-country move with a tribe of children, this is harder than I ever imagined.

I know that we’re not alone. Other spouses choose not to PCS with their husbands for jobs, stability, kids or a myriad of other personal reasons. Excuse me while my inner five-year-old rears her head, but the idea of going through another 8 months apart from him, after he’s only been home from Afghanistan for 9 months, hurts.

But this isn’t a deployment. Jason’s not being shot at, or eating MRE’s or flying dangerous missions. No, he’s just living a few time zones away until the state of New York decides what’s in the best interest of our little girl.

The boys are more than understanding, they’re utterly supportive. Yes, they were devastated when the court couldn’t give her permanency one way or another last month, as were we all, but they kissed her little cheeks and promised her that they weren’t going anywhere without her.

Meanwhile, I see what they’re giving up – their dad for another eight months when they just got him back – and I want to sob at how we’re ripping our family apart just for the chance to keep it together.

In the words of my husband – this is the easiest choice with the hardest consequences.

So he’s packing his things as I unpack the boxes we’d filled in hopes that we’d be going with him. We’re putting everything on hold and beginning a life in limbo, so I guess it’s a good thing that the Army has taught us to be flexible. We bend in this marriage, this family. We don’t break.

Just a week left together to fit in giggles and hugs, good-nights kisses and before-school high-fives. Then it’s time to brush up on our Skype-skills and flex my sole-caretaker muscles. I want to say “I’ve got this. No problem.”

But truthfully, trepidation doesn’t adequately describe the pressure in my chest. There’s no feeling that encompasses our choice here other than love.

We love her. She loves us. Love can stretch a continent, so we’ll focus on that until we know how long we’ll be apart, and how many of us will be moving. But no matter what happens, we’ll know that in this, we put our money where our mouth has been. We’ve stayed. We’re seeing her through. Because when it comes to foster parenting, it’s never about you, it’s about the child, and her best interest – and her family staying put while she’s in the center of a fight she didn’t make is definitely what she needs.

He goes. We stay.  Five kids, three hockey teams, visitations, therapists and one mommy. Here we go.