I’ve watched the award-winning military documentary “Stripes” a few thousand times, so I fully understand what the Army’s basic training is like: A lot of laughs, some sexy mudwrestling, and telling Francis to “lighten up.” All in all, not too bad.
Of course, I’ve never been in the military myself, but I do come from a distinguished military family. During World War II, my grandfather helped design the labs we used to build atomic weapons. My father continued the tradition, retiring as a lieutenant colonial, and my brother’s now a retired Army JAG. I, however, knew early on that I could better serve my fellow Americans by fleeing far away from the frontlines… and hanging back with the women, children, and other cowards.
My son, however, has balls the size of Alpha Centauri, and committed to the Army National Guard when he turned 17. This weekend, we’ll all be at his graduation in Fort Moore, Georgia: He’s finally done with basic training. Danny made it!
And after 10 long weeks apart, we’ll take him back home.
Having a child in uniform has got to be the definition of conflicted emotions: Of course I’m proud! I’m chest-puffing proud! I’m ridiculously proud! But I’m also frickin’ terrified.
We supported Danny’s decision 100 percent, but make no mistake, this was what he wanted to do. We didn’t push him whatsoever; he volunteered because he believes there’s honor and nobility in being a soldier. He loves our country, he’s strong and smart (perfect score on the military exam, baby!), and he sought to join the Army Cavalry while his body was still capable of a heavy workload. He told me he wanted to test himself physically, since he has the rest of his life to sit behind a desk.
I’m excited for him, but I’m also excited for myself: Soon we’ll have a trained killer sleeping in our house, which REALLY could come in handy. (If you thought Nixon’s Enemies List was lengthy, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I’ve got a lot of gripes.) Danny still has his senior year left in high school, so I’ll have him under my roof for at least another year. That’s plenty of time to get revenge.
>Fiendishly rubs hands, a la Monty Burns<
After that? Who knows where he’ll be. An 18-year-old is an adult; it won’t just be my decision to make. I hope he’ll stay here forever. But I also know he deserves better than that: It’s a big world, and if his future is what I think it is, his destiny will eventually be away from me. I just don’t know when.
The only thing I know with absolute certainty is that, until his military tenure is over, I’ll be watching the news and following current events with my eyes wide open. Anything that might lead to a conflict will resonate differently than before.
I don’t want him to get hurt. Can’t even imagine it.
Once, when Danny was 13 or 14 months old, he was whimpering in his sleep, so I lifted him from his crib and rocked him in my arms.
“Da — Daddy?” he whispered, confused and disoriented.
I continued rocking him, and he soon began to snuggle.
“Oh, Daddy!” he sighed, perfectly content and at peace. Then he drifted back to sleep, for there was nothing to be afraid of anymore. He was safe in Daddy’s arms.
Nothing can hurt you when Daddy holds you.
But now, the same little boy who I used to protect will be the one protecting you and me.
I’m so proud of you, boy.
