Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

November 10, 2003

Dear One Hundred and Thirst Airflung Heroes,

Happy Veteran’s Day to you,
Happy Veteran’s Day Brave Vet-er-ans!
Happy Veteran’s Day to you!

It is 8:30 PM on a Monday and my eleven year old son, Dylan, is playing games on his computer. I can tell because every few minutes he yells, “Awwrrgh!” Then there is a ferocious flurry of keyboard strokes. Then he yells, “Awwrrgh!” again. The only reason I have not gone in there and told him to knock it off is that there is no school tomorrow. We had a four day weekend due to an institute today and Veteran’s Day tomorrow.

Dylan had a rather exciting day today because he was allowed, for the first time, to hang out at the mall arcade with a friend. Yes, my little baby is now a mall rat, I admit it. His friend Austin invited him for what we mothers used to call a “play-date.” Austin’s mom and I just figured out this morning that it is suddenly not acceptable to say “play-date” in reference to getting our fifth grade boys together. Sooo-rrry! See how gosh-darned insensitive we mothers can be? We should be rounded up, taken behind the barn, and given coolness training. We are “drastically,” like, “so lame,” and we feel just terrible about it.

Also, Dylan did not approve of my singing along with my car radio when I picked them up from the mall today. Seems my singing ability is substandard, not to mention acutely embarrassing. But I just know that if those boys could hear me sing when they are NOT in the car, they’d think I’m better than Brittney Spears.

For reasons I have never been able to figure out, my singing is infinitely better when no other person is present to hear me. I’m not kidding- I sound just fabulous whenever nobody else is around, especially in the car. On the highway I am especially glorious. I can belt out the entire “Operation: Mindcrime” album pitch-perfect when Queensryche is cranked up on the CD player. Even in-town driving causes an amazing improvement in my voice. I am often so melodious I feel obligated to roll down my windows at stoplights to give other drivers an opportunity to enjoy my performances with the Indigo Girls.
(The three of us totally ROCK.)

Outside the car, I’m not quite as good, although I do have a certain flair for commercial jingles in the bathroom. My current favorite is the Country Insurance jingle. (This is m-yyy COUNTRY! These are m-yyy PEOPLE! I know them like the back of my own HAAAND!)
If you could hear me I swear it would bring tears to your eyes.
There’s a Lion King commercial that has me convinced I should actually try out for the off-Broadway production being advertised. And when I sing along with the Car X ad I am completely in my element.
(“Rattle, rattle, thunder-clatter, boom boom boom! Don’t worry, call the Car X man!”)
God, I love that song.

My young son obviously lacks the musical joie de vive needed to appreciate my talents and enthusiasm. He lacks other things as well, including a healthy desire to rot his mind with R-rated movies. I am shocked by the Millennial Generation’s ability to police itself.

Yesterday Dylan invited Nick M. over to watch a movie in our newly completed basement “media room,” into which my husband has installed the latest in home theater sound and lighting technology. The boys were trying to decide on a movie that would adequately thrill them with action and surround sounds. I suggested Alien, thinking that would provide a virtual wealth of disgusting slimy things and weird noises. What eleven year old American boy worth his salt would NOT want to watch an insect-like creature burst from within the squirting belly of some lab guy? I figured they would LOVE to get to watch a gigantic drippy-gross movie in the new “media room.”

Wrong.

Dylan wanted to know what Alien was “rated.” (R. Okay? It is rated R, but that is ONLY BECAUSE OF LANGUAGE or grossness or something.)
Nick said it was probably “not appropriate.” He claimed he can only watch movies that are “appropriate.” I doubt Nick could even define “appropriate” if asked. He probably thinks “appropriate” is defined by Websters as:
“a-PRO-pre-AT. 1) N. Having or relating to themes approved and endorsed by The Moral Majority; wholesome and vitamin-enriched. 2) Adj. Not rated R or PG-13.”

I made an argument for Alien in an effort to appeal to what I would have expected was a boy’s natural desire to get a free load of cool movie blood & guts. I wanted them to have the thrill of seeing a really good movie for the first time in our outrageously expensive new home theater. Also, I wanted to watch Alien, and I thought they could certainly handle it.
THEY ARE ELEVEN YEARS OLD, for Christ’s sake!

No joy. They both looked at me like I am some kind of sociopath intent upon warping their impressionable little minds. As I write this, they are probably reporting me to the authorities.
I may be brought up on contributing to the delinquency charges and accused of trying to get them hooked on graphic violence and Sigourney Weaver's underpants.

In response to my sales pitch for Alien, Dylan looked me square in the eye and said, accusingly, “I didn’t think you wanted me to watch any R movies, Mom.”
(Well, yeah, but this is just ALIEN, for crying out loud!)

I finally gave up and let the little pussies watch Jumanji. They loved it, which says something about the future of the American male. We might as well teach them all to speak French and then put our collective American heads in the oven. I worry about this Millenial Generation.
It seems we are rearing a potential new generation of Nazi Youth. All of the constant supervision and organized activity we have forced upon them has turned them into an army of small Brown Shirts.

The Army will just love them, though. They are all about teamwork and following orders without question. They seem completely prepared to embrace a totalitarian regime if it means greater security and less chance of making a mistake. I honestly fear for our freedoms.

Don't trust anyone under 25.

Much love,

--An Army Mom