Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

December 24, 2003


Dear 101st Airborne Heroes,

It’s Christmas Eve! Santa is on his way! I heard on the radio that Santa is using a Blackhawk helicopter instead of the sleigh this year, just to show whose side he’s on. I’d thought it was obvious- the man is dressed in red & white and has twinkling blue eyes. He speaks English and gives stuff away for free to people who don’t even deserve it. He might be a bleeding-heart liberal, but he’s definitely an American. (I suspect Mrs. Claus is a conservative Republican. Somebody’s paying all those bills Santa racks up every year.)

My husband's gigantic penis was delivered today. Actually, it’s a 55” Mitsubishi TV set, but I think there’s a certain phallic ego thing involved. Sadly, he was not here to witness its insertion into the womb of our "Media Room."
My friend Ann called to tell me her husband, Clint, has a bigger penis than Rudy. Clint purchased a 57” Hitachi a few hours after Rudy bought the Mitsubishi. Undaunted, Rudy will remind Clint that we have cable broad band for our computer network and they still have DSL. (Ann & I find the constant competition between our husbands and their tech junk rather comic.)

So now the “Media Room” is nearly complete. Dylan and I think it's ridiculous to call a basement family room a "Media Room," so we have begun to call the former family room “The Lobby.” We pronounce it in an affected tone, as in,
“I think I’ll take my afternoon coffee in The Lobby today.” We both find this hilarious, but nobody else understands our humor. We don't care; we know we are funny as hell. Besides, it looks like a hotel lobby- there’s a fireplace at the end of the room and two couches facing each other across a big rug. I’m thinking of having Carpenter Josh install a check-in counter and a bunch of key pegs.


My elegant Christmas Eve dinner party has been postponed until Saturday due to the plague that has ravaged our frail family. Rob had a very bad case of the flu last week. Young Dylan got it next, and is just today registering a quasi-normal temperature. Last night he was finally down to 98.8!! I was oddly proud, as if he worked very hard to achieve a near-normal temperature.

He asked only if that meant I would refrain from waking him up several times during the night to take his temp yet again. I promised I would let him sleep.
I thought about rigging up some sort of remote thermometer to keep me apprised of his body temp throughout the night. I think this would be a very useful device- one of those killer app inventions that could make me an instant millionaire if I can figure out how to work it. Kind of like a baby monitor, only it will relay all vital signs to the parental bedside. I could market it under the brand name "Home Intensive Care Unit." Worried mothers the world over would pay big bucks for such a device, don't you think?

Despite Dylan’s miraculous recovery, my sister refuses to bring her children anywhere near us until the weekend. By then she figures we’ll all either die or become germ-free. I can’t say that I blame her- it’s a bad flu and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit to see her skulking around outside putting quarantine signs and crime scene tape across our front door.

Thus, our entire family will gather for Christmas Eve dinner on Saturday, Dec 27. You are all invited, but I must warn you that it never goes as I envision. I work my butt off to make sure the house is perfectly clean and decorated in a festive holiday manner. I will make extra room in the coat closet, and set a beautiful dining table using my best dishes, crystal, and cutlery. I will keep the kitchen as neat and well-organized as possible while cooking. I’ll wear my sparkly red Christmas sweater, just because Rudy and Rob find it hideous. Candles will glow throughout the house, a fire will crackle merrily in the fireplace, and I’ll have Christmas carols playing softly in the background.

In my fantasy, this will be the year the family will gather in a civilized manner to enjoy polite conversation and warm rapport. I will envision the adults sitting in the living room sharing a cup of eggnog while the children gather ‘round the Christmas tree in hushed awe. I will get all misty-eyed just thinking about it.
Then our family members will begin to arrive and wreck everything.

Within 15 minutes utter chaos will ensue. My sister’s kids will drop their coats on the floor and kick off their shoes in the middle of the front hall. My sister’s purse will somehow end up on the floor in the middle of a room. (I don’t know why this happens, but it always does.) My mother will admire the dining room table, but everyone else will move things around and mess up the artistic display. My dad will take up residence in a corner of the kitchen and begin giving a political speech while simultaneously eating everything in sight. Someone will turn on the TV, adjust the volume to LOUD, and then wander off, leaving it on and unwatched. My brother in law will roam the house on tip-toe, craning his neck to inspect our home for cobwebs. (He does this inspection every time he comes over and thinks I can’t tell what he’s up to.) There will be wrapping paper strewn from one end of the house to the other, decorations will hang in tatters, the kids will be fighting, and my mother in law will surely weep with longing for Mexico. All of this will happen before we even sit down to dinner.

This year I’m not even going to assign myself a place setting. There’s no point, since I’ll spend the entire meal running back and forth from the kitchen. This happens at every holiday dinner party no matter how well I plan. This year I shall be pragmatic. I shall don my stupid holiday apron and serve & clear, serve & clear. I’ll set a Chinet plate and a tippy cup for myself at the kids’ table and enjoy a nice chat with the little ones. Rob can have my place at the big table- he’s the guest of honor this year anyway. (Military veterans will ALWAYS have a place at the big table in our house, and don’t you guys forget it!)

Much Love,
--An Army Mom

Friday, August 29, 2003


Dear Rob & Buddies,


We’re all back to school and it is just as hellish as last year, maybe more. At Bent School, the west side grade school where I work, the “Behavior Disordered” kids have grown in size and number. There are several new ones who have not been civilized at all yet. They are quite clearly the prison inmates of tomorrow and they make last year’s BDs look like angelic future Nobel Prize winners. The new BDs are uniformly surly, rude, hostile and ungrateful. They are not really Behavior Disordered; they’re just Bad Dudes. Their teacher, poor Mrs. B., looked like she wanted to send pipe bombs home in their backpacks today.

The new principal, Mrs. H., is cool, though. Very calm and collected. She expects the BDs to actually behave like morally virtuous human beings, which is a new concept at Bent. The former principal fully expected them to behave like the violent little reprobates we all know them to be. I wonder how long it will take for Mrs. H. to figure out that it is not her job to educate the BDs? (that is, sadly, not possible) It is her job to just ensure that they are not allowed to murder the other students.

Today, little Ben B. of the regular first grade came trembling to the kitchen to report that one of the new BDs called him a fucking motherfucker and said he would come to Ben’s house and kick his ass and kill his dog. Poor little Ben was scared shitless, of course, since the BD kid is probably a 14 year old fourth grader.
(It takes quite awhile for the BD kids to progress from one grade to the next since social promotion is no longer allowed and they now must suffer the inconvenience of having to learn to read.)

Six year old Ben was very cute when he said “fucking motherfucker” with his eyes screwed shut and his hand over his mouth in utter horror at having to repeat the dreadful Bad Words. I wish I’d had a video camera to save the Kodak moment for his mom and dad.

I told him not to worry because they always lock that big kid into his room at night and he absolutely cannot get out no matter what!
He said, “REALLY?” Big brown eyes filling with hope.
I said, “Oh, yes. You and your dog will be perfectly safe.”
“But what if there’s a fire?” Ben asked, doubt creeping back into his chubby face. “Will they let him out if there’s a fire?”
“Yes, Ben,” I said, “If there’s a fire they’ll have to let him out, but the firemen will be there and firemen know how to keep him under control at all times.”
“And ambulance guys,” said Ben. “There would be ambulance guys, too!”
“Yep. They might even give him a shot.” said I.
Ben thought about this for a moment, then said, “And I don’t even HAVE a dog!” And off he went to finish his lunch.

My work was done- another potential nightmare victim saved by the Lying Lunchlady. It’s all in the tone of voice. If you sound convincing, and you don’t overdo it, the littler kids will believe ANYTHING YOU SAY.

Many of them half believe that my head comes off. I like to casually announce, “My head comes off.” They say, “Nuh-uh! Show us!”
I say, “It’s really hard to get it back on. That’s why I can’t do it at work.” They snicker and say they don’t believe me. But I can see the little glimmers of doubt in their eyes. They WANT to believe that my head comes off, just like they want to believe in Santa Claus. Sometimes I tell them about the time I took it off and put it back on backwards and had to drive backwards to the hospital to get it fixed. They love that story.


There is a kindergartener, Michael O., who has proclaimed everyday this week at the lunch window, “I’m the new kid around here!” It’s hilarious since ALL the kindergartners are new kids around here.
I just love that kid. I think he and I are kindred spirits. Today when Michael said, “I’m the new kid around here!” I answered with, “Oh, yeah? Well my head comes off!”

Much love and unconditional support,

--An Army Mom

Friday, August 15, 2003


Dear Rob,

You may have heard that yesterday America had the biggest power blackout ever in the history of mankind. Frankly, I hardly noticed it, once I got the word that it wasn’t a terrorist attack. Today, Dylan and I heard that one poor woman was trapped in a Detroit elevator for 18 hours. We wonder if she had to pee. Worse, what if she had to go Big Potty? Yikes, what would she do? Resort to her purse? We decided that elevators should have bags of cat litter on hand just in case of power outages. I’m thinking of making that suggestion to the Department of Homeland Security.

Today we went Back-To-School shopping for clothes. Dylan cannot believe you actually enjoy shopping for clothes, Rob. He thinks I am making it up just to entice him to enter the mall. He simply cannot understand why any red-blooded American boy would give a crap what he is wearing. I warned him that fifth grade might just be the year he notices girls. He just gave me his “Yeah, right” look and went back to doing some sort of chicken dance in the front seat of the car. (Having gotten a good look at the chicken dance thing, I now realize maybe 5th grade is not a likely jumping off point in his romantic career.) But Dylan is really a horrible clothes shopper.

At Gap For Kids he crawled under a table and would not come out. When I called him, he said, “I’m fine.” FINE? I had not asked how he was feeling; I had asked him to act like a mentally normal person and try on this cool pair of cargo shorts. So what the heck is, “I’m fine.”??? I told him that Eastland Mall does not have a “Gap For Retards.” He got all pissy and we had to move on.

At Old Navy he simply disappeared. I refused to fall into the trap of worrying that he had been abducted by a band of roving pedophiles. I picked out three T-shirts and sized them up against the back of another tortured child who looked to be about Dylan’s size. (I was able to do this because the luckless boy was shopping with both his mother AND grandmother, and was thus outmatched.)

Dylan had been busy on his own, however, which could indicate a glimmer of possible future shopping potential. He rejected the brightly colored T’s
I had chosen, and instead had two of his own picks in hand. Overjoyed that he was showing an interest in his own clothing, I was completely prepared to love whatever he had picked out. His choices were not bad, just ….ambiguous and disturbing. (to me, but not to him.)

He had chosen both an Army green T-shirt with a shiny Black Hawk helicopter decal hovering on the middle chest and a blue T-shirt with a big PEACE slogan on the front, with a Peace Sign on the back, near the collar. I looked at him closely, but he seemed unaware of any discrepancy. In the check out lane the girl said, “Oh, look! War and peace! Ha ha.” I speared her with a blank stare.

I don’t know if this means that on some level Dylan understands that one T-shirt leads to the other, or if he just likes helicopters and peace signs. I imagine a child psychologist would say it is significant. The grandmother of the poor kid I used for sizing would say, “Oh, come on! Look at the kid; he’s clueless!” I tend to side with grandma. Still, it is odd that he only chose those two shirts.

At Sears I made him try on about 10 things. I would say, “Go put this on and then come out and show me.” He would dodge into the fitting room, then try to sneak up on me on the sales floor by darting around the fixtures, being sneaky and (in his mind) elusive. In reality everyone in the whole store could see him bouncing like a pinball from one fixture to the next. My MO was to ignore him completely until he would jump out and say, “Gotcha!” (then he laughs idiotically, like I had no idea whatsoever that he has been making a complete fool of himself in the Boys 8-20 section for the past 10 minutes.)

I say, “Yeah, whatever, do the pants fit? Or do we need to try a 12 slim?”
Just for revenge I tend to grab his crotch and give a few public yanks to see if the pants are going to be “roomy enough.” He HATES that, which is, of course, why I do it. (I used to do that same move on you, Rob.) I also like to use the stick-my-hand-down-the-front-of-the-pants-in-front-of-God-and-Everyone move to see if they’re “maybe a little too tight.”

Dylan has no idea that I do these things just because I can. He thinks I am absolutely fascinated with how his pants fit his waistline and inseam. (Actually, I must admit, it is somewhat important.) But I can tell at a glance what fits and what doesn’t, so a lot of it is just for fun.

By the time we leave the mall we are no longer on speaking terms. I refused to buy him a stupid-looking hat with a surfer on the front, and that is all he wanted all day. I told him to wait and choose a hat as a souvenir from our upcoming trip to Branson, MO. He gets all pissy again and pouts.

I, of course, love it when he is pouting, because I get to say things like, “Are you still pouting? Okay, don’t let me interrupt the self-pity going on there in the back seat of my car! You just carry on with the pouting, that’s okay, I’ll just drive you home now!” (He totally hates it that he can’t act like a shit without me saying it is okay. Makes him think I am in charge of EVERYTHING, even his bad mood.)

Because I am.

Much Love,
--Mom