Motherhood

My last few days before leaving went by much as I expected.  I didn’t talk to my husband again before I left, not even when he came to pick up the boys from our house the night before my plane left, and I guess I didn’t really expect to—even now, I don’t understand his ability to erase me, erase us, and move on so totally, but he did.  My therapist said that my husband’s seeming lack of attachment was not “normal.”  I liked her diagnosis better than my own–that I was unlovable–so, I readily accepted it.

When the time came, saying goodbye to my sons was gut wrenching.  I learned the human body can produce endless amounts of tears.  During the days and nights leading up to my departure, there was more crying, mostly after the boys went to bed and my mind raced with all the things I would miss while I was away for so long.  I gave the boys so many hugs and kisses that they were entirely ready for me to leave.  When the doorbell rang and their dad was there to pick them up, I reminded them that they would be staying with daddy for a little bit, but I would be back soon.  To young children, a year and a week are the same.  No sense in trying to explain it by reiterating how long it was.  I didn’t need that either.  Earlier in the evening, when I was packing the last of my supplies in my duffle bag and suitcases, my oldest son grabbed onto my neck and cried, his little body shaking and his warm tears running over my skin where he had tucked his sweet face.  I didn’t break in that moment.  I had compartmentalized my motherhood too much by the time I had to leave.  My emotions were anesthetized, and I just held him tightly, shushing him and rocking back and forth until he, at last, pulled away.  As they grabbed their coats and favorite toys to take to their dad’s, my oldest hugged me again, adding a wet, unpracticed kiss to my cheek.  Then, he walked through the threshold, grabbing onto his dad’s hand and disappearing into the darkness of the front yard.

It is hard to explain to people who have never experienced deployments before that this, being called away, was my mission.  I was peaceful about serving my nation in Afghanistan because, if I were to die there, I would die doing something honorable and respectable.  My sons would have a war hero for a mother, and I could leave them a legacy.  At least those are the things I tried to convince myself were important as I finally boarded the plane.

Pre-deployment training took place in Northern Wyoming.  Wyoming in January is the stuff that old westerns are written about:  a wind chill in the negative double digits, tumbleweeds impersonating grass, and cold–bitter, skin-cutting cold–slicing through layers and layers of clothing.   It was the sort of cold that made the tiny hairs inside your nose snap to violent attention.   The Army loved it, and they loved training the Air Force in it—sometimes too much.  We low-crawled through the bramble, practiced walking in field formation around the frozen ground outside, and conducted land navigation skills through freezing ponds that cracked the skin from your bones.  Once, I sank into snow up to my waist and received an abrupt, hefty shove from one of my teammates so I could make it up the damn hill.  Instead, I made it about two feet forward, face first in the snow.  I loved every minute of it, largely due to the people I met.  At this point in my travels, I had made up my mind that positivity was the key to survival, regardless of how much I wanted to be back home with my boys.  Afghanistan was my assignment for the next year; time to put on my big girl panties—a confusing term used to mean grow up and stop whining—and get the job done.  But even more important than any positive intention was my openness to others around me, an unexpected gift from my heart being broken.  I know that some people respond to heartache with bitterness and self-containment, but it wasn’t in the plan for me to die slowly that way. My impending divorce left gaping holes all over everything, and, if I shut people out and let ugliness invade every cell in my body, reek out of my pores and pollute everyone around me, I would never see those holes filled again.  For whatever reason, I didn’t entertain that sort of darkness.  As my reward, I met P-Dawg and the A Team.

I was starving. The mall harbored a Chinese fast food stand, and I was waiting in line with Emily and several other hungry, cranky, tired and broke shoppers to get some re-heated fried rice and rubbery orange chicken. It was 7 in the morning on Black Friday, the aptly named day after Thanksgiving when all the dedicated deal makers wait for hours in lines outside the Kohl’s stores and Targets, the Wal-marts and Best Buys to get 75 inch television sets for $150 and 6-slice toaster ovens for $10. My aunts, cousins, their friends and I had been out since 3 a.m., standing in lines waiting for stores to open, waiting to pay for things, now waiting to get something to eat. Lines, lines, lines. My buzz from the “special punch” in our Big Gulp cups had dissipated hours ago, the 5 Hour Energy shot Amber made me buy at the gas station in their town had me crashing hard, and my feet were tenderized and swollen. My public politeness had been stored away somewhere with my good judgment, which explained why I had let that saleslady straighten only half of my hair at a mall kiosk. 

After waiting in line, mostly patiently, for my moo goo gai pan, I took a step towards the cash register and was interrupted by two fellow deal hunters. These ladies, brunette ninjas, slipped in front of me with not so much as a sheepish smile in my direction. Until this moment, my first Black Friday experience had been filled with story-making memories like the conversation with the self-described “smart sister” and the “pretty sister,” twins with clangy Arkansas accents in front of Kohl’s who just couldn’t get boyfriends and their mom didn’t understand why, or the unexpected joy of finding an outside electrical outlet where we could plug in a warming blanket for Erica and me to huddle under while we waited for the Target store to open.  Not the least of these memories was the very public parking lot dance Emily did to the latest hip hop song blaring from our mini-van.  I genuinely laughed while she twerked in an empty parking space—a real, healthy belly laugh. The early morning hours had been filled with friendly encounters with southern strangers and good times.

Some of the Arkansans’ southern drawl must have seeped into my subconscious because I spoke to these women, these linecutters, these testers of my charm and pleasant disposition with a full-on southern sass. “I just want YOU to know that I know you cut in front of me. I DO see you cutting in front of me,” I twanged. 

“I’m sorry…what did you say?” One of them drawled.

I felt empowered as I twanged right back, “It’s important that you know, I see you standing in front of me in line when you weren’t there before.” 

“I jist waunted to git a draaank,” she began to reason why it was acceptable for a grown woman to cut in line like a kindergarten kid who didn’t know any better.

“Say what you need to say, lady, I just need you to know that I see what you’re doing, and it’s not okay,” my gaze was direct, but I was surprised at the steadiness of my voice. After almost a year of becoming smaller as my marriage broke, shrinking under the unloving words and gestures of someone I trusted, it felt good to vocalize to this stranger woman that I knew what she was doing. I knew why she was justifying her disregard for me and for my feelings, and her lack of consideration for how I might feel to be cheated in this way. It was a rebuilding moment, even if she did think I was crazy.  If I could find that woman again today, I would thank her by buying her a mall eggroll.