Combat Boots and a Tutu

So I haven't written a blog entry in almost a year. I have about 250 different reasons for this, all of them valid. I will not discuss them here and now, but reserve the right to do so in a later blog that may or may not ever get written. Suffice it to say there is such a thing as "blogger's block."

But today is my baby's 2nd birthday and I'm going to write something about him. My Roman. My sweet little boy.

I've given a lot of thought to what I should write. There are so many things about Roman that I'd like to share. But the one thing that keeps coming into my mind is war. You may wonder what war has to do with a 2 year old boy, but stick with me on this one. I'm going somewhere with it, I promise.

I'm sure a big reason I keep thinking about war is because I am right now living with my parents who have a son off fighting in one. It is on our minds throughout the day, every day. It is hard not to. When the doorbell rings unexpectedly, terror takes hold of the house. I've lept over the coffee table in a single bound just to get to the front window before my mom could open the door. I don't want her to open the door to two men in dress uniforms. As if a shut door could contain the reality of their message and keeping it from infecting us. As if.

My mom checks online constantly for any signs of Danny. You see, if he is online, then he is safely back in his room, on his computer. When she goes a week without seeing his log in name on her screen, the panic sets in. After two weeks, she sends out emails to everyone he knows asking who heard from him last. From there she starts dialing the number in Iraq that he gave her for emergency use only. Her need to verify his safety overrides all else.

She cannot help herself. She is a mother and her baby is far from her arms with people trying to kill him. That is a fear I cannot fathom. She'll never fully recover from it, either. Even when he comes home safe and sound, she'll be forever altered. Researchers have proven that there are physical changes in the brain after an emotional trauma. Given that, my mother is yet another casualty of war.

Again, you may be wondering what in the world this has to do with my two year old. Well, he comes from a very long line of military men. As far back as we can trace there has been a military man (more than just one, actually) in every single generation of his lineage. His father, all three of his grandfathers, four of his five great grandfathers, four of his seven uncles, three of his six great uncles... I could go on, but I think I've made my point.

I am afraid that he too will become a part of that. It is a breath taking fear.

Now, I am not already planning out his combat future. My sweet faced cherub prefers hair and make up, brooms and vacuums, feather boas and high heels to BDUs and boots, guns and toy soldiers. In fact, I have high hopes of him one day starring in an off broadway production of La Cage Aux Falles. But I ain't sitting around fooling myself, either.

The fact is that wars are mostly started and then fought by men. Man's inhumanity to man is perpetrated by men. And someday, my baby boy will be a man. I can only hope that no matter what his career path, I have instilled a base of values on which he can build a life of love, empathy, and cooperation.

Children are so simple and basic, yet their multiple layers of complexities are fascinating. Roman is no different. He is pure. Pure joy and love. He loves his mama and his tutu (sister). But should we cross him, he comes out swinging. Just the other day he took his sister's fairy wand (another favorite of his) and when she protested, he swung it like a bat using her head as a ball on a tee. When questioned about this, he smiled an adorable smile, then proceeded to reenact what he had done so there would be no doubt.

Recently he has begun to shush us as well. He worships his daddy, but again, should Daddy attempt to quiet him down, he'll turn on the shushing. "Shhhhhhhhh..." he says, finger to his lips and the other hand out like a traffic cop stopping a line of cars. It is hard not to laugh and when you do, man, does he get hopping mad.

A late talker, he's just recently had a major word explosion. And while you can still only understand about a third of what he says, he will talk your ear off with tales of high hilarity, private jokes the punchlines of which are known only to him. One can only laugh along with him as his giggles are much too contagious to contain.

He still carries a pacifer around with him, clenched tightly between his lips. The child will most definitely be a smoker as he's far too orally fixated for mere gum chewing. We will attempt to rid ourselves of "duck" (his word for the pacifer) before the spring flowers bloom. We'll see who caves under the pressure first. If you are a betting person, the odds are in his favor.

All told, he's a simian little boy with a penchant for jumping up and down whilst shoveling all varieties of junk food down his gullet. Food with nutritional value need not apply here. He's thrown whole plates of lovingly cooked dinner fare to avoid actually having to eat it. Like most chimps, though, he likes fruit. And like most chimps, he likes to break things. I swear, when he enters a room, he takes a quick look around to assess the situation and then he decides what it is he will start messing with first. It's usually something breakable. He likes that best.

Ah, but when he is fast asleep at my bosom, he's angelic with a world of promise and hope surrounding him like a halo. If I could bottle that feeling of safety and security I feel when he's in my arms, I'd take a swig now and then when he's older and out in the big, bad world. While everyone knows that mothers would gladly die to save their children, what most people misunderstand is the very selfish nature of that seeming selflessness. You see, it would be easier to die myself than to go on living if something were to happen to my children. So it is my own safety and security I feel with him snuggled up close, too young to fight in foreign lands, too sweet to be a good guy or a bad guy, too small for combat boots. If I could bottle that feeling, I'd pour my mom a tall nightcap on ice so she wouldn't have to cyber stalk her baby boy to get a night's sleep.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Roman Hayes. Don't grow up too fast. Mommy needs to hold you just a bit more. And may you become the ballerina you've always dreamt you would be.