By Jean Davidson
Yes, I'll admit it. I cried when my daughter went to college. A mother-in-mourning, I curled on her bed hugging one of her little pink teddy bears. When she finally called to say — in a voice radiating sheer joy — that she was unpacked and settled, I got up, baked her some cookies, and moved on with life.
Two years later, the scenario replayed itself when our older son packed his car and headed to college. I felt like my heart was broken. Like a good mother, I carefully researched and wrote out a list of every possible place along the route where he could find friends and refuge. I even called people and told them he might show up on their doorstep. He, too, phoned to say he had arrived safely and was excited about his new beginnings. I got up, baked him some cookies, and moved on with life.
Then our younger son turned seventeen and announced he intended to enlist in the Marines. Nothing — and I do mean nothing — could have prepared me for that bombshell, no pun intended. A huge lump of steel dropped straight into my stomach and lodged itself there.
"No," I gasped. "You're just a boy."
"Mom, I'm almost out of high school," he argued. "Besides, I've already talked to the recruiter."
I waited for my husband to say something like: "No, not only no, but NO!" Instead, all I saw was a father's beaming grin.
Granted, no wars were going on at the time, a fact the boy made certain I knew. But why had my quiet, tender-hearted son decided to be a Marine? This time I didn't wait until he drove off into the sunset. I broke down and cried right there on the spot.
Fortunately, a calmer head prevailed. My husband, an Army veteran, took it upon himself to educate our son in the whys and wherefores of military service — including the fantasies and realities of boot camp as well as the loneliness of being far from home and family. When our son grinned with anticipation, I knew I had lost not only the battle, but the war.
In the end, we did sign the early enlistment form — after he fully investigated all branches of the military, finally choosing the Air Force. With utmost care, he studied the calendar and made certain he could finish boot camp and be home for up-coming events, like his sister's wedding in October, and all important holidays.
At the end of summer, he boarded a plane for Texas.
"Mom," he informed me, "Don't be sending me stuff, okay? And don't be writing. It will make me look like a wimp."
I gulped and nodded, all of my motherly instincts squashed. When he left, I bawled like a baby. Except he did not call to say he arrived safely. That would not have been soldierly, I guess. A week crept by before he rang.
"Hey, Mom. I'm here. I'm fine. I hate boot camp!"
My heart soared. He wanted to come home. Not.
"Send cookies," he begged. "And write letters. Lots of letters. Everybody is getting mail but me!"
I baked and mailed cookies before day's end.
When boot camp ended, our son prepared to come home as planned. Instead, our phone rang and, while a horn honked in the background, he told us he was being transferred.
In the wee hours of the morning, he called again. His voice cracked with uncertainty. "Mom, I'm somewhere in Florida and I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I only have $10 and I haven't eaten since morning. I'm starved."
Now large and in charge, I gave instructions on "how to survive far away from Mommy" and told him to call me from the new base as soon as he could.
Suffice it to say, in the weeks following, he missed his sister's wedding, his birthday celebration, Halloween parties, Thanksgiving, and – yes — Christmas with the family. Our holidays were significantly subdued.
In January, his training completed, our son came home to visit. He stepped from the car dressed in crisp blue, his long blond hair replaced by a crew cut, his slouched shoulders replaced by a straight, proud stance. I admit it, I cried again. My little boy had come home a man.
Here I offer simple words of inspiration to other parents. Be brave. Cry a little or cry a lot. Above all, hitch your resolve to the future — for that's the direction your kids are headed.
Send cookies... and move on with life.
Then our younger son turned seventeen and announced he intended to enlist in the Marines. Nothing — and I do mean nothing — could have prepared me for that bombshell, no pun intended. A huge lump of steel dropped straight into my stomach and lodged itself there.
"No," I gasped. "You're just a boy."
"Mom, I'm almost out of high school," he argued. "Besides, I've already talked to the recruiter."
I waited for my husband to say something like: "No, not only no, but NO!" Instead, all I saw was a father's beaming grin.
Granted, no wars were going on at the time, a fact the boy made certain I knew. But why had my quiet, tender-hearted son decided to be a Marine? This time I didn't wait until he drove off into the sunset. I broke down and cried right there on the spot.
Fortunately, a calmer head prevailed. My husband, an Army veteran, took it upon himself to educate our son in the whys and wherefores of military service — including the fantasies and realities of boot camp as well as the loneliness of being far from home and family. When our son grinned with anticipation, I knew I had lost not only the battle, but the war.
In the end, we did sign the early enlistment form — after he fully investigated all branches of the military, finally choosing the Air Force. With utmost care, he studied the calendar and made certain he could finish boot camp and be home for up-coming events, like his sister's wedding in October, and all important holidays.
At the end of summer, he boarded a plane for Texas.
"Mom," he informed me, "Don't be sending me stuff, okay? And don't be writing. It will make me look like a wimp."
I gulped and nodded, all of my motherly instincts squashed. When he left, I bawled like a baby. Except he did not call to say he arrived safely. That would not have been soldierly, I guess. A week crept by before he rang.
"Hey, Mom. I'm here. I'm fine. I hate boot camp!"
My heart soared. He wanted to come home. Not.
"Send cookies," he begged. "And write letters. Lots of letters. Everybody is getting mail but me!"
I baked and mailed cookies before day's end.
When boot camp ended, our son prepared to come home as planned. Instead, our phone rang and, while a horn honked in the background, he told us he was being transferred.
In the wee hours of the morning, he called again. His voice cracked with uncertainty. "Mom, I'm somewhere in Florida and I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I only have $10 and I haven't eaten since morning. I'm starved."
Now large and in charge, I gave instructions on "how to survive far away from Mommy" and told him to call me from the new base as soon as he could.
Suffice it to say, in the weeks following, he missed his sister's wedding, his birthday celebration, Halloween parties, Thanksgiving, and – yes — Christmas with the family. Our holidays were significantly subdued.
In January, his training completed, our son came home to visit. He stepped from the car dressed in crisp blue, his long blond hair replaced by a crew cut, his slouched shoulders replaced by a straight, proud stance. I admit it, I cried again. My little boy had come home a man.
Here I offer simple words of inspiration to other parents. Be brave. Cry a little or cry a lot. Above all, hitch your resolve to the future — for that's the direction your kids are headed.
Send cookies... and move on with life.
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