You’ve settled in, made friends, finally hung up a picture you’ve been meaning to for the last few years, then your husband calls to say postings are out and you’re moving.
If this sounds familiar, you must also be a defence wife.
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You join all the local family groups and bombard them with questions about what places to avoid and what schools they recommend so you can aim to live within the zone. What are the best energy companies, farmers you can buy your veggies from, things to do in the area?
Great, you’ve figured out what suburbs you’d be happy with, now you need to silently pray a suitable house in that area comes up. Let me tell you, house hunting is a full-time job. You question your sanity as you form a new relationship with the home finder site.
Your husband tells you to put your phone down and go to sleep but WHAT IF SOMEONE SWOOPS IN AND STEALS THE PERFECT HOUSE?
Woke up to go to the bathroom? Might as well have a quick look at what’s available.
Wake up! Wake up! The perfect house in a suburb I want has come available!
There in bed with you now lays a mighty pissed-off husband (you’ll thank me later, it’s fine.) He mutters to just take it if it’s “perfect.” You frantically hit that reserve button in case another nutcase is also house hunting at 2am.
Now that you know where you’ll be living, it’s time to figure out which preschool. Wait, are they going to preschool, kindergarten, foundation or what?! Every state has different names for the beginning of school, so sounding like the confused baboon you are, you call and say, “This is the age of my child, what should I be enrolling her into?”
You finally find a preschool, but then on the enrolment form, the dreaded emergency contact section ties a knot in your stomach. Ah, crap.
Onto your local defence family page, you go. “Would anyone mind being my kid’s emergency contact? Perhaps we could meet for a coffee tomorrow?” (I literally wrote down the name and number for a lady I had never met this posting.)
You Jenga your crap into the house and call it home.