I have two fellow tell-it-like-it-is moms. And one of them left for war today. A whole year. Gone. I’m not talking about the war between siblings that results in bumps and bruises.
I’m talking the real thing: Iraq. I am terrified for her. She will be the gunner, flying as a medic (whatever that means). Thanks to the media, I have terrible visions of what this entails. She told me it’s not like that, but she’s a mom. I think it’s innate to protect the ones you love, even when it means not being totally honest. (Two words: Santa Clause.)
I’ll say it again. She’s a mother. For the next year, her girls will perform in dance recitals, get ready for dances and deal with “dumb” guys — without their mom.
Can you imagine going a year without seeing your children? Understandably, she was an emotional wreck. Dad doesn’t make sandwiches the same, or tuck in kids the same, or read stories in silly voices the same. Dad is good. But dad sometimes doesn’t cut it.
While a part of me can’t understand her decision and is angry with her for leaving, I admire her strength, her courage, her ambition. She’s following her dreams, and for that, I have the utmost respect.
But when I see the girls at parties without their mom, it’s going to be hard. I vowed I would step in as best I could. But I’m not mom. Yes. I’m a mom. But I’m not their mom.
Sacrifice. It’s by far one of the most painful requirements of parenthood. I have made countless sacrifices for my children, but nothing like my Army girl.
So here I am, writing about spilled milk, while one of my best friends is on her way to a warzone. It puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?
Please: Pray for all those who are fighting for our freedoms, who leave their daughters for a year so that we can enjoy the right to vote, the right to express ourselves without fear.