They Keep Going, and Going...

My soldier babies, that is. Word is that they're all coming home, but they keep going and going and going to Iraq and Afghanistan.

Jerrica, one of my first Toys for Troops supporters, is waiting in Kuwait in 121-degree heat to begin her second tour in Iraq. Pictured on the right, she told me in a quick Facebook chat today that she can't wait to get home.

I attended a going away party for my friend Laura's son, Maxwell, a few months ago.

 He's serving in Afghanistan right now.

• A California friend added 30 to my mailing list in April.
• A young friend in ROTC has given me a few more addresses.
• One officer has 27 guys that would like beanie babies.
• I received a letter today from another in Afghanistan that works in an area that has 8000 kids. They swarm him every day for toys.

Brian worked the airport at the base last night, sending off 600 of his, to Iraq. The mood was grim, he said, because "by morning they'll be in Germany and Kuwait." He sent me photos throughout the evening. The first read: "I do not miss this."

And this one, with the message: "He's writing a letter to his wife. Old school."

A few more, of them waiting, and this one, with a text: "Prayer."

And finally, this one.

1 army base.  1 evening. 2 planes. 600 soldiers. Away from home for 1 year.

At this point, Brian is still using his "Dwell Time," finally fully granted. There's a chance he will not deploy after all, this year, and maybe for the next. It's almost too much for me to believe. I talked to him this morning, and he admitted that last night was a tough night. "There was a lot of emotion in the room," he told me.

There's a pit in my stomach, because I know this. I know there's been a final goodbye. I know cell phones still allow some contact, some last minute I love yous, and text messages read "still waiting," "heading for the plane," and "will be in touch ASAP."  I know the phones will then probably be put away for the next year, and the next word will come from Germany, through email and Facebook. It might be tomorrow. It might be a couple of days.

And, with a sudden sense of panic, I know I have to get busy.

I got soldier babies overseas, and I got some motherin' to do.

Aftershock: Tour #1

My last post was about my son, Brian, an update of his life after his second tour in Iraq.

I want to share with you a day from a year ago, when Brian was home on leave in the midst of  that tour. Brian, Chris, Chad, Anthony, and Kyle were gathered in the kitchen, all of us talking and laughing while I puttered over dinner.

I turned the subject to friends of mine, a gay soldier, Clay, just home from Iraq, and his partner Dylan,  actively fighting for the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell. My bestie Diane and I had just met them in Chicago for a night, and I was regaling tales of our our visit.

This particular soldier baby was unable to find help for his PTSD symptoms. The military couldn't ask, or didn't tell, but the VA sure could, and would. I bustled around the kitchen squawking and outraged at the fact that this country wasn't backing up someone that fought on its behalf. I also shared some of the techniques that Clay had told me were working to calm him, for instance, when flashbacks occurred

"That's so interesting to hear what other people are going through," Brian said. "I cried myself to sleep every night for a month when I came home from my first tour. Sometimes its all you can do. When I picked up Smith's arm, I cried. You just cry and bag the arm, and finish your shift and go back to your bunk and cry. Then you sleep and get up and go to work the next day."

...

What?

The boys and I stared at Brian, stunned into silence.

What?

I had taken a pan off of the stove, and I stood still with pan in hand, when I finally asked, "You picked up Smith's arm?"

"Uh huh."

More silence, until I said "Is Smith ok?" Please. Let Smith be ok. Please let it be "only an arm."

"No, Mom. He was not ok."

As if we were the only two in the room, I said "You never told me this before."

"I've never told anyone this before," he said.

I don't remember more of the conversation. I remember feeling like a bird that had just flown into a window. I might have put the pan down, or I might have carried upstairs with me, to whisper something hysterical and undiscernible to Clint. I remember Clint saying "Go back downstairs, you're doing fine."

Yes. Yes, I was fine, I was doing fine. I went back downstairs, and the subject had passed. We had a Mexican feast,  and continued on our jolly evening, until the boys took their leave. And I followed Brian's lead after they left: I cried.

I cried, and I went to sleep, and I got up and went to work the next day.

*****

I had been so ready for it, when they came home, in 2008. Ready to watch and listen, and ready to love and ready to advise, and ready to recommend. I tried to give them space, but prod, under the radar. Were they ok? Were there counselors? Were those that were struggling ostracized? It's ok, you know...it's ok for all of that shit in Iraq not to settle within you.

I was on standby for months, for the entire next year. I recognized the aggression in "my boys" and the need for an adrenaline rush. I chided them after motorcycle accidents and roadhouse brawls. I preached a good sermon about constructive versus deconstructive behavior, baby.

And finally, I watched them even out, and turn back into people I could recognize. What did I think? That a little time in "civilized society" was all that was necessary? That if we could just get them to "Point B" after they came home without hurting themselves or someone else, then we could lay it all down and be done with it?

Maybe I did think that. That once I didn't hear more, then there was no more. These soldiers don't often talk, I'm finding. Who can blame them? It's taken me a year to find the words to tell about one meal around my table.

Why is it so hard to tell?

Because I wonder who I was, for him, in the midst of some of those terrible days. Was that the day that I sent an e-mail, nagging him for not calling me in 3 weeks?

Because when I think of him, I think of him as my child, and how picking up arms in a war zone was never what I wanted for him in a million years, and that kind of buckles me.

Because I don't want Brian to read this and ever think that his sharing caused me pain that I myself cannot endure.

Because it's really not even about me—is this even mine to tell?

I have no idea what it's like to be a soldier. I don't know the fear or adrenaline of being shot at, or returning fire. I don't know the horrors of being in a war zone. Those things, they aren't mine to tell.


I am, however, a soldier's mother, and that is mine to tell. It's mine to tell, and mine to remind, at a time that we've been at war so long that we're desensitized to the news stories, that tens of thousands of soldiers' mothers—and fathers, and friends and wives—are sitting down to dinner, or watching a random TV show, or just walking through a mall, and finding out what their soldier really went through, 2, 4, 6 years ago.

I am a soldier's mother, it is mine to tell you how it feels when your kid tells you that he's picked up pieces of his friend in a war zone. It feels like someone kicks your soul right out of your body.

I called Chris shortly after that dinner in our home, to bend his ear. I know how it felt to be this kid's mother and learn some of what he'd experienced. What about his best friend? What was his reaction? Chris's reaction was little different than mine: Devastated. Responsible, somehow for not having offered up support earlier, for what, exactly, we did not know. Though we were waving and volunteering, Brian moved about without us, coping, repressing, not seeing the point of hashing it all out, or not being ready to.

Mother, father, siblings, friends—ridiculous as it was to feel it, we did: like utter failures.

We weren't, of course. We were, all of us, on stand-by 24 hours a day, if Brian needed us. What he wasn't ready to say could wait, and that remains true today. Maybe we're not done. Maybe we are. No matter what, we are all unconditionally available to Brian, and to his comrades, and to one another.

I am a soldier's mother, and it is mine to tell that when we are worn down, weary, unwilling or unable to talk, it is our personal silent army: our loved ones in the wings that move us through, and out of our pain.

It is, perhaps, the only thing I have in common with my soldier babies.

And that is mine to tell.

Army Mom Misses Son's Phone Call

Alternate Title: Getting a Grip

I just missed a phone call from Brian.

I was window shopping on my lunch break. My phone was in my coat pocket—set to vibrate, so as not to bother my coworkers. I forgot to switch it back to ring. I missed him by 2 minutes.

I HATE that, hate it, hate it, hate it! I was in public, so I threw an internal temper tantrum. Missing a call from him gives me severe Tourette's; my initial reaction is: "#$%#@# @$^%#@$ %@#$%@ %%^!!!," followed by imagining kicking over some garbage cans, and another string of "#@%@#@ ##@$%@# %$%$^*^*"

I envision throwing my phone to the sidewalk, and smashing it into a million pieces. I'd panic, immediately, of course, pick up all the bits and reassemble the phone, in case he tried to call back in a few minutes.

I settle down a bit. I pass on browsing, and shuffle back to the car, a black cloud over my head. I open and close the phone as I walk, willing it to ring again. Ring, dammit! I swear, I'll answer it! I drive back to work, with the phone in my hand.

I console myself: There, there. He's ok. If he's calling, he's ok. He'll try again tomorrow, or next time he gets a chance.

It makes me feel a little better, so I graduate to pouting, for the next hour or two.

I'm not the only one, I know. Jeff has also missed Brian's call before, and as we keep each other posted, I've heard his frustration on the other end of the phone. The same tantrum ensues. He recently left his phone in his office for 5 minutes, and missed Brian's call. Gah! #$%#$% And I just feel awful for him, as if I'd missed my call too.

It's so important to both of us that we've taken to communicating to one another, if we know anything. Brian will sometimes send me an e-mail, mentioning that he'll try to call in a few hours. I immediately get on the phone, call Jeff, and tip him off: Do NOT leave sight of your cell phone today! Likewise, Jeff has called me before, with a message that Brian will call me in 20 minutes.

It is so frustrating, missing a call from your soldierbaby. You can't return the call. It could be days before he can call again.

I've said it before, but for all of my weeping and gnashing of teeth before Brian left, I feel like I walk around coping pretty well. When I hear his voice though, I am filled with both an immediate sense of relief and an acute awareness of how worried I really am.

After a bit of pouting, the cloud lifts.

He probably thought of something I could send him.

He's ok.

And that, I know, is what matters, right now, more than than sound of his voice.

This Boy's Life

Brian did make it home for this weekend, after all. He has 4 days off, Saturday though Tuesday. We're so happy for every minute we get with him!

But guess what, I've had a bit of a conflict with him lately. A certain cell phone bill that's in my name hasn't been paid as promptly as I'd like it to be, and we need to figure something out for the upcoming months. Don't sweat the small stuff, I know, but it stands to be a huge expense over the next couple of years, if we don't freeze the account, which is also a possibility. At any rate, we need to get some things straightened out! I admit: I enlisted the help of his Dad: "hey, help me give the kid a nudge, will ya?"

Brian teased me last night, "Hey! Did you call "The Collection Agency" on me?!!"

I stood staring at him for a few minutes, and did the only thing I could do:


I mugged him. Yes, I ran over and got him in a headlock told him I'd have to show him who was boss. I wrestled him right off the couch, screaming a maternal battle-cry. His friends, fearful for their own lives, scattered and took cover. Brian pinned me fast enough though, and said "watch it! I'm a trained soldier! 3 seconds! I could kill you in 3 seconds!" I countered, "but you won't, you won't! You can't hurt a mom! I win, I win, I win!!!"


He admitted defeat, and I declared victory for Mom's worldwide.

I also decided Bush should bring home all of our sons, and send, instead, 30,000 pissed off mothers. We'd box any ears that need boxing, and no one would have the audacity to give us any lip. We'd march over there, demand that everyone play nice together. Anyone who doesn't will get sent to time out. For as long as it takes.

Ahhh, last minute jocularity.

I later asked Brian, "can you really kill someone in 3 seconds?" He told me, "yes." That, he has, himself, lost consciousness to this technique they were taught, in his hand-to-hand combat training. He said "I thought I was talking on my cell phone, and I came to, wondering where in the hell I was."

I know this isn't a game. My son is shipping out next week, and I'm still stunned that he's even a soldier. I don't know him as a soldier! I don't physically see him, as a soldier. When he's home, he's wearing Bob Marley t-shirts, and cutting up with his friends, and drinking Miller Lite. Except for the haircut, he's the same kid that left my house almost a year ago, heading to bootcamp. Isn't he?

He is, and he isn't. I'm surprised at how much I don't know about him, his life, any more. He's so damned strong now. And smart. He knows so much that I don't know. Stuff I can hardly imagine, or that I have a false idea of, in my mind. Part of that is that I know so little about the military in general. I've seen more Army bases on TV than I ever had in person. Last week I had Brian explain the hierarchy of regiments/battalions/companies/squads/platoons.

It's bizarre to me, to be so removed and understand so little about my own son's life. I will continue to ask him questions, hope for lots of letters, and learn through his photos and stories. A lot is explained to me by military veterans also, and I appreciate all the input I can get.

Here are a few pictures that Brian took at NTC, desert training at Fort Irwin, CA. They give me a bit more insight into his life.

He drives a tank. He got the tank-driving gig by chance: Another soldier went AWOL, and he filled the position.




Here's his view from the driver's seat:


This is Brian's friend, and as far as I'm concerned, "another one of my son's," Kyle Lathrop. He was here last week, when Brian was. Another smart kid, I enjoyed talking to him immensely. He's an artist also, and spent a few bucks on some good supplies at our local Art Coop. He worked on his drawings on the 12 hour ride back to GA on Monday.

Here he is holding a big honkin' machine gun.



Brian ran to duty without shaving one morning, and caught hell for it. In this picture, one of his buddies is helping him get the job done, from the confines of a tank. This photo was not staged; he really is getting a shave with a knife. In military lingo, that's "sharp honkin' knife."

A random view at dusk:

And a few of his buddies. Click to enlarge.

They're babies! Children! Our little boys.

No.

They're men.

Soldiers.

Our country's protectors.



Crap.

I still like the idea of an Army of Pissed-Off Moms better.