On Children

I write about my children a lot. Yet I know that no diversity of linguistics, no etymology, no play on words or catchy phrase could ever describe just how much they mean to me. They are truly precious, and a piece of my heart was torn off when last I left them. It’s not a broken heart now, but an incomplete one.

My daughter is five, and she is in Kindergarten. She has brown hair and eyes like me. To be fair, her eyes are the color of coffee with gold filaments throughout the retina. She speaks so intelligently and never fails to point out some detail of a situation that I have overlooked. I truly enjoy seeing the world vicariously through her big eyes. She loves pretty dolls and Dora the Explorer. She has a vivid imagination, and tells stories with such detail that they never cease to amaze. Her eyes are full of mirth and intelligence, and her sweet little laughter is pleasing to my ears like church bells or a boat horn heard but not seen through a fog.

My son is three. He has blond hair and blue eyes like his mother. He has a big bushy head of hair, and is talking wonderfully and going through a Thomas the Train phase. Every time I get him a surprise and tell him to close his eyes and hold out his hands, he asks, “Is it a Thomas choo-choo train?” He is obsessed. If it was up to him, every movie he watched would be a Thomas movie. He also likes trucks and footballs and other boyish things. He’s going through another phase right now. When you tell him what you’re going to do, or what he has to do, he opens his eyes very wide and shakes his head from side to side, saying “No I’m not. I’m not,” in a tone of voice that intimates he’s telling you some new revelation. It always starts serious, but ends in a smile and a laugh. He knows he’s not supposed to say it, but he enjoys the reaction he gets. His smile melts my heart and my anger no matter what the situation. He’s so innocent, and I look forward to watching him grow up before my eyes.

My daughter is having the hardest time with my being gone. I’ve missed Kindergarten. She has show and tell, and wants to bring me to school in my uniform. Most of the time she’s okay, caught up in her little world, but some times when I call, she cries passionately, telling me she wants me to come home. Really pulls on the old heartstrings. I tell her that daddy is helping to fight very mean people, and making the world a better place. She says I’m her hero.

My son doesn’t really get it, though of course he misses me too. Occasionally he’ll say “You coming home now?” And I tell him, “No, not yet buddy. But Daddy will be home soon.” I’m glad he’s so young I guess, though I have friends who have older children and it doesn’t seem to be any better. If there are 140,000 American troops in the Middle East, then there are probably at least 200,000 kids back home missing them. We all have family and friends we leave behind, but I think the kids are the hardest part. They are our legacy for the future, and they are impacted the most when a soldier is killed in battle and daddy never makes it home.

You wake up every day, and yes, time goes by, but you feel like you’re missing chunks of their lives that you can never get back or experience. In most cases, this simply strengthens our resolve to get the mission done, and to be a more powerful force in our children’s lives when we get home. It’s a strange blessing in a way - this thing called war - that makes you appreciate your life and freedom and loved ones more than ever before. But everything happens for a reason and I like to tell myself that one day my kids will understand why I volunteered, and appreciate it. I do know that when I have a bad day or find myself in a dangerous situation, it is my family that I think of for strength and inspiration, and it is God. But honestly, mostly, it is those two wonderful little people who know me as Daddy- their hero.

"Making the decision to have a child - it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." - Elizabeth Stone

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