Five years ago, Dustin came home from work and said, “What do you think about moving to Pensacola, Florida, again?” We had lived in Pensacola once before, when we were first married and Dustin was finishing flight school.

“But we’ve already been to Pensacola,” I said. “I’d rather go somewhere new.”

Of course, when Uncle Sam decides where military families should move, ideas that begin with “I’d rather” or “I want” rarely enter into the conversation. Wait, I take that back; they never enter into the conversation, unless, of course, it is to make the service member’s spouse feel like her or she has some control over the situation. Expressing opinions, in this way, bears a striking resemblance to playing “What’s My Favorite?” with my 5-year-old son, Owen.

Owen: Mom, guess which is my favorite type of ice cream, chocolate or vanilla?
Me: I already know that it is chocolate.
Owen: Not today. Today it is strawberry.

No matter how many times you play “where would you like to move” with your husband and your husband’s detailer (via your husband), Uncle Sam’s response is usually an unexpected, previously unmentioned choice with either really cold winters or bugs the size of small dinosaurs.

“Yes, we should definitely try something new while the kids are still young,” I told Dustin five years ago, and promptly began daydreaming about someplace -- any place -- that I had never been before. A few weeks after that, Dustin came home and said, “I got my orders. We’re moving to Pensacola.” My next natural question, after the obvious one (“Why, why, why do they even ask for our opinion?”), was, “So when do we move?” This, by the way, reminds me of another game Owen likes to play called “Guess How Many?”

Owen: Mom, guess how many straws I’m holding behind my back.
Me: Four.
Owen: [Quickly dropping a straw to the ground] Nope, three. [Dropping another straw] Now guess how many, Mom.
Me: One.
Owen: [Picking up straws from the floor] Nope, five.

I admit that I was at first bitter about moving to Pensacola. I felt like we were going in reverse while our friends -- friends with orders to Nebraska, California and Germany -- were moving on to new experiences. Dustin reminded me that the Navy isn’t in the business of giving me, Sarah, traveling opportunities. Uncle Sam isn’t my Life Coach or real estate agent. Something about “needs of the Navy” was mentioned. Whatever.

But then something unexpected happened. Well, two things, actually. First, I began to love Pensacola and didn’t want to leave. Second, we did not in fact leave when our initial orders were up a couple of years later. Dustin received back-to-back orders to the same duty station, changing only the squadron to which he was assigned. We have been in Pensacola for going on five years now. In the past, I was afraid to mention this fact because I didn’t want to draw needless attention to it (“The Smileys are still in Pensacola? They haven’t moved? Well that’s not very Navy! Let’s send them to Alaska for six months, and then to Guam. That will teach them to stay in one place longer than two years!”) But the cat is out of the bag now because just the other day, Dustin came home and said, “Would you be willing to move absolutely anywhere next year?” Actually, he came home first, watched football, surfed the Web, ate a sandwich, and then asked me that question while he was brushing his teeth and I was getting into bed. It had the effect of a bird pooping on my head. “Why are you asking me this right now?” I begged. “Why not five hours ago when you got home from work? Now I’ll never sleep!”

Yes, it’s true, the Smileys will finally leave Pensacola, and I am filled with unanticipated sadness about saying goodbye to the city that I initially didn’t want to select (and I use the word “select” loosely). It is a dangerous thing when a military family becomes settled in any given place, when they finally have somewhere to call “home.” The deeper the roots go, the harder it becomes to transplant the tree. 

You may wonder where and when we’ll move. We will leave next Spring, give or take a few straws. “Where” is anyone guess, as I will explain in next week’s column when I cover “How Your Husband’s Detailer Really Makes His/Her Decision.” Stay tuned.