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 My house is a war
zone. On any given day my boys will be conducting special ops warfare that
will result in an explosion. There’s sibling warfare - mostly
constitutional skirmishes. I’ve ruled on issues of privacy: yes, you do
have to knock before barging into your brother’s room to dump cold water on
his head. No, I don’t care if that ruins the surprise. Freedom of
the Press: you wrote what on your brother’s notebook?! The Right to Keep and
Bear Arms: I understand you need all these rolled up socks for your munitions
supply, but you need to wear socks in the winter. Period.
I’ve experienced Germ Warfare; coughing on your table neighbor’s food,
sneezing in your brother’s direction, licking all the cookies and then putting
them back. I’ve witnessed Psychological Warfare; which is all about
making someone believe that you’ve used his toothbrush to swab the toilet.
Being that I am Mom Capitan in this little battleship, and admittedly ready
for anything, I shouldn’t have been a bit surprised when my husband dropped a
verbal bombshell into our living room. In 96 hours, he’ll be in the
Middle East War Zone. I was hit with a stinging realization – “Aww,
crap. I’m married to a Navy guy.” It wasn’t a real secret or
anything, I mean the uniform, dismal pay, and horrifyingly long hours were kind
of a giveaway. It’s just that during the last year, in the alternate
reality that is military family life, I’d come to look upon my future as
bordering on idyllic.
In our decade-plus marriage we’ve survived deployments (man never home),
job combined with War College at night (man home long enough to sleep and
shower), overseas tour (man moves us to unrecognizable home), and job combined
with Master’s program (man home for showers, sleeping during class).
Clearly, we’ve done harder stuff for longer periods. The thing is, that
was a different guy. The guy they’re sending to the Gulf is a man who
escaped the Pentagon on 9/11. Since that horrible day he’s read
intelligence reports that gave him nightmares, seen photos that made him want to
gouge his eyes out and endured endless limb checks from a nervous son who
can’t forget where daddy was that day. The guy that ran home that night
was a newly minted dad and husband. One compass point away from death, he
became a guy who suddenly wanted to live for more than his job.
The guy they’re sending to the desert has spent the last year reading fewer
late night reports and more bedtime stories. Less time catching up on
email and more time catching fly balls with his sons.
The irony here is that the man loves the sea but hates the sand. He’d
rather lick Hampton Boulevard than go to the beach. So, even without the
bugs and the bombs, this would be a less than ideal situation.
Still, I feel sorriest for our sons. They’ll have to come to me with
their math homework, so their grades are headed for the toilet. They’d
have better luck stopping a dog on the street and having him bark the answer –
I’m just that bad. I’ll have to assume the driving instruction
of our eldest and I know there’s not enough Maalox in the city to help me
survive that nerve-wracking experience. I’ll have to take over tending
the yard, which means my annual “death to all growing things” campaign will
have to start early this year. Since my husband is leaving in less than a
week, I’ve got a short amount of time to get up to speed on some important
issues. I must learn vehicle maintenance, tool identification and the Zen
Master approach to the breakfast smoothie. Only when we have achieved
balance, between the banana and the strawberry, will the puree be perfect.
Some things just won’t get done. Our eldest son must be driven to
Crew practice at 5AM. At 5AM I’m sleeping like I’ve been chloroformed.
I’m going to have to beg, borrow and bake my way into a good carpool or invest
in some smelling salts. I just pray someone else out there is a sucker for
brownies.
By the time my husband comes back I will have written a dozen notes in lip
pencil because I can’t find a lead version, convinced the kids that Dawn
dishwashing soap is perfectly acceptable bubble bath and tricked them into
believing that they have to eat their vegetables because right now, dad’s
eating dirt.
Hopefully, we’ll look back on all of this and have a good laugh.
Because, after that, I’m going to have a really good cry.
Copyright 2004 Melissa Baumann - Used by Permission
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"Melissa Baumann is a freelance writer living in
Chesapeake, Virginia. She was honored with an award in the humor category
from National Society of Newspaper Columnists at their 2004 Convention in New
Orleans. This is her Award Winning column, first published in
the Navy Times.
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