Generally, I don't agree with using the "It could be worse" reasoning on other people to get their attitudes in line. Because no matter how trivial what they're 'going through' is...it's just really annoying. It can be a highly effective part of one's inner monologue, though.
We are currently spending about a week in a hotel room with two easy-going kids and the diapered dog. I'm sporting a hung-over/post-barfight look thanks to 40 years of pet dander embedded in the walls and maybe some hidden black mold, and my attempts to keep it neat (getting in practice for the new! organized! lifestyle! that I aspire to with every move) have proven Sisyphean. And it's hard keeping the kids happy and my joints have gone all barometric and there's the slight issue of the fact that my husband may not be able to complete 2 weeks' worth of inprocessing in the 2 days that it has come down to. And worst of all, there's only one computer with internet for the two of us.
Now let's take a journey back in time.
In the summer of '91, for three months my family lived in two hotel rooms in the Hotel Panama, Panama City, Panama (had to clarify just in case you were wondering whether it was the Central American country where a drug lord's government had recently been overthrown, or the spring break spot--a distinction my grandmother's travel agent once failed to make--but I digress). Four kids, including a three-month-old--four! what were my parents thinking?! Why didn't they leave at least one of us in the States?--off base house hunting, a long commute to post over potholed roads through crimeridden stoplights (no cell phones! a cattle prod and mace in the car for protection!), oh yeah and things like when you walked into McDonald's there was a 17 year old Panamanian soldier standing there with a gun as big as himself.
I'm a wimp, and I hereby nominate my mother for the Martha Summerhayes Award of Supreme Armywifehood. (If you're wondering who that is, look at the quote at the top of this page.)