My son is a mama’s boy. I am a boy's mama.
Our attachment was not instantaneous. There was no magic. Our attachment grew in the small, shared moments of life.
It took root when I held my tiny, hungry baby and I fed him. It grew as I soothed his anxious cries, singing whatever song I could pull from my weary brain. It bloomed when we snuggled in for naps together, breathing in and out simultaneously. Our lives are so richly intertwined that it is hard to tell where I stop and he begins.
My son is a military child. I am military mama.
No matter what comes, Little Man knows he can count on me. I am his constant.
My husband is a military dad. He loves our children completely. But he doesn’t have the luxury of constancy. He misses out on everyday opportunities for fatherhood. It’s been that way since the beginning.
Four months from my due date, Leading Man was selected for command of a Provincial Reconstruction Team in Afghanistan. In an instant, our “military family planning” went out the window.
He would miss the first 15 months of our son’s life. He’d miss his birth. He’d miss his first smile, first steps, first word. He’d miss his first Christmas and his first birthday.
“If it had to happen, it is best that it happened now,” he rationalized. “He’s too young to know I am not there. He won’t remember it.”
In some ways, Leading Man was right. Intellectually, Little Man doesn’t remember that his Dad missed those things. But emotionally, he knows.
He knows his dad is gone way more than he is home. His dad has been traveling for work or deployed more than half of Little Man’s four-years-long life.
He knows he wants his mom to buckle his seatbelt, to hold his hand, to sit next to him in restaurants. He knows he wants his mom to read him stories, to wipe his tears and his bottom, to make his dinner. He knows his mom will make everything all right. He knows he can count on me.
A while back, I asked Leading Man what he wants our kids to remember about him when they are adults. He said “I want them to remember that I served in the war….I was awarded three Bronze Stars….I helped the people of Afghanistan reclaim and rebuild their country.”
His answer seemed so sterile, so historical, and so sad. His answer seems so different from my own.
I want my kids to remember that I loved them. I want them to remember how I kissed their hurts, how I read their favorite stories, how I played catch in the living room. I want them to remember that I carried them when they were tired, that I called them “Booty” and “Punk.” I want them to remember ice skating and train trips and Christmas cookies.
It took me a while to make sense of my husband’s response and to accept its wisdom.
Leading Man knows he missed out on important, irreplaceable moments in our kids' lives. He misses them every day. Even when he’s not deployed, his responsibilities keep him away from home in mind if not in body.
Those missed moments are painful for Leading Man and for the kids. “Daddy has to work” is a lackluster reason for missing the spring preschool concert. “Daddy has to work” doesn’t make Little Man feel better when the phone rings during dinner. “Daddy has to work” cannot begin to express the importance of Daddy’s job. Sure, Little Man understands about “bad guys” and “good guys,” but he can’t grasp how bad the bad guys are. And he doesn’t yet know how good his Daddy is.
My husband hopes his children – when they are all grown up – will understand why he wasn’t there. He hopes they will be proud of him. I hope so, too.
My son is a military child.
He runs outside every afternoon when retreat sounds on base. He puts his hand on his heart and stands still until the National Anthem ends. He is proud to be an American.
Then he waits in the yard. Sometimes he waits for hours. He waits for his Dad to come home, playing and puttering until he sees his Dad’s car round the bend. Then he runs all-out toward the end of the driveway and holds his arms up high so his Dad can pull him into the car through the open window. They maneuver into the garage together, four hands on the wheel.
As they interact, their attachment grows. They talk over dinner about daycare drama and last night’s episode of Wipe Out. Then they adjourn to the dining room to race slot cars until I say it is bath time. Little Man bumps Dad's car off the track with amazing skill. He declares himself the winner. His Dad is the happiest loser I’ve seen.
In those small moments, my son and his dad are not subject to military priorities or the deployment schedule. My son feels his Dad’s love as surely as he feels my own. He is a military child.
----------------------------------------------------------------
If you're visiting from Pour Your Heart Out at Things I Can't Say, thanks for reading. I wrote this post in honor of Month of the Military Child. Your can learn more about how you can support military families at BlueStarFamilies.org. This post originally appeared as a guest post on Wife of a Sailor. Thanks to Wifey for letting me re-post it here on my own site as well.
Some rights reserved by DUCKofD3ATH 
