Army Mom - A Non-writing Post about Irony and Anxiety

I don't like arguing or fighting. I don't like guns or other things that go boom and can kill you. When my son was a toddler, I wouldn't buy him toy guns or allow anyone else to buy him a toy gun either, thinking that if he didn't have guns to play with, he wouldn't become enamored of them. Yeah, right. He started making guns with his Duplos; I gave in on the no toy guns policy.

He's in the army now. When I visited him last weekend, he told me about his qualifying as an expert in everything a soldier holds in his hands, points at an enemy, and goes boom. What can take some soldiers all day and I forget how many rounds to do, he did as fast as one can do it with the minimum number of rounds. They would put up the target, he would nail it. He had people watching him qualify, it was so impressive. Yes, I am proud of him, but *headdesk* how's that for irony?

Several years ago, he joined the army. Despite being a Buddhist and believing in a non-violent approach to life, I supported his decision to join the army. I still do. Even when that means he gets deployed into a combat situation.

I've experienced a lot of tragedy in my life. I've been in dangerous situations where someone has had a gun in their hands and could have shot me with it. Having my son in a combat situation provokes more anxiety than any of that. Because there is nothing I can do to protect him and keep him safe. Nothing. It's the most helpless feeling in the world. And it sucks.

He'll be deployed again soon. All I have to say about that is: Hooahh!

Now where did I put that bottle of Ativan?