Besties

 

This morning I had breakfast with two of my besties. We go back to what I lovingly refer to as the “Sausalito Days” when we were all adorable and skinny and slightly crazy.  We had lots of boyfriends or would pass the same ones around and around- it was a small town, after all. That no guy ever came between us is a small miracle and a testament to our bond and long lasting friendship.

We have taken to meeting at IHOP for breakfast this past year. Early Saturday or Sunday mornings (before the church crowd gets there on Sunday).  We used to eat at more trendy places- but as we get older and money seemingly tighter- and time harder to come by- this is where we have landed. I look around, see other sixty somethings- and think how did we ever get here?

Patti is married now, Liz and I, still single. I was in my early twenties when I met both of them in the early to mid 70’s. Of course I can’t be date specific because that was after all very heavy drinking and everything else days.  

As we chatted this morning, we realized we are indeed getting old. We are all dragging our butts after a workweek and for the most part would like nothing more than to curl up with a good book on our days off.  Patti stays busy- but pays the price by having bronchitis six times a year. Liz – a polio survivor who has never let her pain and polio complications stop her from anything- has slowed down considerably. I have babied myself for years. I don’t overbook, I rest up on weekends and still just recently became sick and lost time at work for the first time in I can’t remember how long.

We are all very different- with a few strands of commonality. Patti is the nurturer. She has the patience of Job and is the caretaker of the world. Sometimes I lose patience - on her behalf, because I’m sure she never will. She puts up with my rants of course, because she is probably the most patient with me. Patti will be the one to visit everyone in the old folk’s home- even though no one will know who she is anymore. She will talk to the patient like there is someone home upstairs- even when the lights are long out.  That is who she is.

Liz is all heart, strength and intelligence – sometimes short on patience when she hears people complain about every day ass aches-like they are dying, when she has walked around with a whole body ache without complaint for most of her sixty plus years. She still thinks and talks faster than I can hear or comprehend- and her wit is still as sharp as thirty years ago. Her body betrays her- but she perseveres.

Sometimes I think- I am a little bit of both of them. They both participated in taking care of me- raising me during the craziest years. I probably owe them both my life- for shelter and sustenance when I needed it most.

I’m not as caring or patient as Patti- but I love my family and my friends and try to make a difference when I can. And I still make a few people laugh- those that get my deadpan humor and gallows wit anyway.

We are all survivors. We have all survived the loss of family and loved ones over the years. We have survived our own illnesses, broken hearts and occasional loneliness. Today when we spoke Liz reminded us to be grateful for what we have. She is right. We still have our health, though not perfect; we are not bed ridden or dead. We still have our brains, our memories intact if somewhat scattered some days due to stress or busy lives but not dementia. Not dementia or Alzheimer’s.

We traded Christmas gifts, which we said we were not going to do this year. None of us has money, but it has been our tradition for a long time now.  As we were getting our coats on and bundled up to go out in the cold, it occurred to me how fortunate I have been to have the friends I have. How accepting they have been of my faults- my quick temper and unruly mouth.

Last month Renee,  my oldest bestie  (years known, not age) came to my rescue (and called me a stubborn ass I think) but I know I might have ended up in the hospital had she not come to take care of me and make me go to the doctor. She is right of course, I am a stubborn ass. Renee and I meet at IHOP  whenever we can too.

Liz said today our big mistake in life was not buying an IHOP franchise.  Now I can tell you of all my mistakes- if Liz thinks that is my big one- I’m good with that.

I started out today lying in bed playing a movie on the back of my eyelids as I do on Saturdays and Sundays when I can be awake and asleep at the same time. Sometimes the movie is good and sometimes it’s bad. If it’s very bad I get up. This morning was just an old movie that starred my family members no longer with us.  December is my eh… month. Johnny died, mom died, and the month just carries a lot of baggage for me in addition to being dark and dreary.  I told myself this morning as my movie was playing on the back of my eyelids; I was going to overcome the blues this December. I am going to walk my dogs-even in the rain, and I am going to take care of myself and be my usual happy self.  Having friends like mine- make it all so much easier.

I’m not blue at all this evening. I feel like December will be good and January even better. I guess sometimes we just need to remember the good stuff and put the rest away.

** One more thing to be happy about. Two of my “newer besties” (less than a decade) sons are home SAFE from Afghanistan. That is something to be happy about this December too.

On a facebook quiz, the other day one of the questions was “Cup 1/2 empty or 1/2 full?” and my reply was fuck the cup. I would like to amend that just for today- cup 100% full.

It's Not Always About Race

Anyone that knows me knows I am not a racist. I decided sometime last year that I would start calling bigots what they were- right to their faces. And I do so- without hesitation. I don’t care about age, gender or reasons why. A bigot is a bigot. But the same character trait that pulls at me to call these people out- is forcing me to call another issue the way I see it.

Not everything is about race.

 I used to work with an African American girl who thought no one liked her because she was black. She called me mom because I was always dispensing unsolicited life advice to her. “Try being polite” I would say.  “Get rid of that chip.” I would tell her. “Don’t drink so much, don’t date jerks, try to get to work on time, stop playing the race card!” 

“Okay Mom.”  She would reply.

She was really a sweet girl under all the bitterness and misplaced anger.

I recognized a lot of my young self in her. I recognized her poor choices in men and lifestyle: her reluctance to take responsibility for her own actions. It is always much easier to blame your parents, your school, the world in general, then to look at your own faults.

Natalya was angry about slavery.  She was from Atlanta, Georgia. And, yes Georgia had slaves, but not in her lifetime- or her mother’s lifetime or her grandmother’s lifetime. Natalya came from a middle class family just like me, went to good schools, (her mother was a teacher) she was not raised in the projects, and had never been beaten by white people.  In her lifetime, she had never been denied the right to vote and never had to sit in the back of the bus. Her anger was taught to her –somewhere along the line- someone said be angry…because life is not fair.

And yes- some people are bigots. Some men hate women, some women hate men, some people hate Chinese people, some people hate Mexican people some people hate African American people. Some people hate dogs some people hate cats. It’s not always based on anything substantial- just passed down from father and mother to son and daughter. Like the cancer gene.

So when Officer Johannes Mehserle was arrested and charged with the “murder” of  Oscar Grant, it turned into a race issue- because Oscar Grant was black and Johannes Mehserle is white. There was no question about it. It was a race thing.

The press went to work fast. Convicting the BART policeman in the press before he ever got to court. He was white- and a policeman- therefore it stands to reason he is prejudiced, and hates black people enough to shoot them in the back. It must have been planned- because they charged him with first-degree murder. What a crock.

Johannes Mehserle made a huge mistake. And in doing so- he took the life of another human being; of this, there is no doubt. Did he wake up that day and say to himself… “I’m going to shoot someone today”? Probably not.

Mehserle was responding to a call at the Fruitvale BART station on New Year’s Day 2009. Whether confused by the melee or scared for his own life- because he thought Grant was going for a gun- Mehserle lost his bearings and grabbed his pistol instead of his taser and shot Grant in the back.

Any kind of murder charge would have been unjustified. The Judge in his case, (which was moved from Oakland to Los Angeles so Mehserle could get a fair trial)  found that he could be charged with involuntary manslaughter but not murder due to lack of evidence– involuntary manslaughter assumes that the death was unintended- still though, finds criminal negligence.  On top of that there was a special circumstance clause because a gun was used in the commission of a crime. But wait. Johannes Mehserle was  a policeman right? They are issued guns. It’s not like he was some street hood that had a gun in his hoodie sleeve. 

Citing the motion for bail – the police investigation report stated:

"Officer Pirone directed Officer Mehserle to arrest two of the individuals who had not been handcuffed. One of the individuals to be arrested was Oscar Grant, and Officer Pirone’s direction to Mehserle was overheard by Grant. Grant, upon hearing that he was under arrest, attempted to stand up, but was forced to the ground face first. Both Officer Mehserle and Officer Pirone attempted to restrain Mr. Grant and to seek his compliance by ordering him to put his hands behind his back to be handcuffed, but Mr. Grant resisted and refused to submit to handcuffing. Officer Mehserle was pulling at Mr. Grant’s right hand and arm, which remained under his torso near his waistband. Mr. Grant had not been searched by any officer for weapons, either prior to his initial detention or after being seated near the wall."

The motion also states that the man sitting next to Grant also told police he heard Mehserle say "I'm going to taze him."

Mehserle then stood up, unholstered his gun, and fired a shot into Grant's back. Immediately after the shooting, Mehserle appeared surprised and raised his hands to his face; according to Michael Rains, Mehserle's criminal defense attorney, several eyewitnesses described Mehserle as looking stunned. Witnesses say Mehserle said "Oh my god!" several times after the shooting. and many saw him put his hands to his head.

I’ll concede: Perhaps Johannes Mehserle was not great cop material. Perhaps his own fear got the best of him that day.  Perhaps he had the jitters because earlier that day two guns had been recovered in separate incidents along the rail line. Immediately before he arrived at the Fruitvale Station , Mehserle was involved in an incident at the West Oakland station where a teenage boy with a semi-automatic pistol had fled from police and jumped off the station platform, breaking several bones.

Mehserle had a spotless record prior to this incident. Grant however did not. He had been convicted of several felonies and had served two terms in state prison. One of those incidents he was carrying a gun. He had been out of jail a mere three months prior to this BART incident. Mehserle would have no knowledge of this information,  however- a good cop usually has a sixth sense- and maybe the hair on the back of Mehserle’s neck stood up when Grant tried to reach into his pocket while being arrested.

Oakland police work very hard for their money. And while BART Police are not Oakland police they work in the same crime ridden city where guns, thugs, drugs and shootings are commonplace. Parts of Oakland on any day are not safe- and on New Year’s Day- when morons like to shoot guns- it’s even less so.  Three months and twenty-one days after the New Year’s Day incident- four Oakland City Police were killed in the line of duty- by gunfire. The assailant in that case was a 26 year old who had spent most of his life in prison. After a brief shoot out with police- he was killed.  People tried to make him a hero. The police are hated in Oakland.

This was never about race- until the press made it so. This was about fear. Fear on both sides- no doubt. Grant afraid he would be arrested or perhaps killed for something he did or didn’t do, Mehserle afraid he would be shot and killed when he had a new baby on the way.  This was about lack of training, lack of education and lack of communication.

The riots that followed the incident did nothing to help the black cause. It was teenagers looting, breaking windows and stealing anything they could get their hands on. It was not about race or rights. Black leaders half-heartedly asked for peace- but in my opinion did not do enough to show young people how to get there.

This week the sentencing of Mehserle, who was found guilty of involuntary manslaughter was announced. He is to serve two years with credit for time served.  He will for the rest of his life, live with his mistake.

More riots followed the sentencing and over 100 arrests were made. Cars were smashed, windows broken and fires started.

 Oscar Grant’s family is unhappy they wanted a murder conviction and maximum sentencing. Of course, their pain will last forever. Losing a child is a pain that never goes away.

Perhaps someday the press will find a way to tell the truth. This was never about race. This was about fear. Until people are ready to have an open dialogue with each other, this will continue to be a problem. Crime is a problem- no matter what color you are.

Prejudice isn’t a one way street. Stop waiting for the government to fix everything, get off your butts, and start confronting your fears. Don’t be a Mesherle or an Oscar Grant. Don’t be a victim.  Lose the chip on your shoulder. Lose your knee-jerk reactions. And start telling the truth no matter how ugly it is- because that is the open door to all communication. 

Sources cited::  http://www.indybay.org/uploads/2009/07/17/mehserlepreliminaryhearingvol6part3_060409.pdf

Mom is Here

It’s a sure bet- that if my mom were alive today- my sisters and I would be fighting over whose turn it was to take care of her.  "You take her."  "No you take her." It would be nice to think that at our ages, this would not be true; that the lessons life taught us would make us value our mother more, but nothing really teaches you that lesson as much as losing someone.

Mom 13 Years old!

When my mom died, we had her cremated. I think the original thought was to sprinkle her ashes with my brother’s ashes up at Two Rock, but for whatever reason – instead, my sisters chose a beautiful urn, with an Asian style motif my mother would have loved, and deposited her remains therein.

She died in December of 1984, and because I was pregnant with Nick, my two sisters decided I should keep mom the first year. We decided together, that every New Year’s Day we would get together and we would hand her off to the next sister. We joked about fighting over who gets to have mom- knowing this would have never been the case were she still with us.

I can’t remember why I had my mom’s ashes in the car with me the day I was crossing Geneva Ave. in my mom’s old Cougar when a Cadillac ran a red light on Mission and plowed into my right front.  The baby was about three weeks old. I grabbed the baby and ran to my Aunt and Uncle’s drug store a half- block away, shaking like a leaf. By coincidence, my dad (step) happened to be there too and when I told him what happened he took the baby so I could deal with the woman that ran the light. She had been on her way to pick up her grand daughter from kindergarten, she said. She was late. 

Mom with her Godson Peter Scanlon

My baby was okay and I was too, and I attributed that to my mom watching out for us more than the solid build of the ‘67 Cougar. We believe what we want.

It’s not death, but time, which gives us the sorely needed perception to understand the departed. I have no illusions about my mom. I have not remade her into a person without faults or human frailties.  Some of things I hated about my mom when I was fifteen I love about her now. I just needed time to understand them.

1964 34 years old in her Roaring 20's makeup

When I was about twelve my mom worked as a cocktail waitress at a place called “The Roaring Twenties”.  She wore fishnet stockings, and a sequined costume that looked more like a strapless bathing suit. I used to love watching her get ready for work. She would apply her make-up with Hollywood precision. To my eye, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Sometimes, because I was a day sleeper not a night sleeper, I would be awake at 3AM when she got home still looking perfect and she would let me count her tips that she kept in a sequin bag. Her happiness was fleeting-but for a short time in 1964 

I can remember her laughing and lighting up any room she was in.

When lives are cut short- we are always left to wonder… what if?  I like to think if my mom were alive, she would marvel at her legacy. She would be so happy that we grabbed onto the good and left the bad behind. That we took the demons she lived with all her life- and sent them straight back to hell.  That we each in our own ways worked through our own fears, trials and tribulations and came out right side up. I like to think too- that she is watching over all of us; children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  That she sees a little bit of her son in Joanna and her children and a little bit of herself in all her grandkids and great grandkids. I sure see it.

Mom approx. 52

Somewhere along the line the ritual of sharing our mother on New Years Day got left behind. My four years in North Carolina and just life in general seemed to get away from all of us. When I came home from North Carolina I kept thinking I need to go get mom- but then when I was at my sister Linda’s house I would forget. Out of sight out of mind, they say.

Last week Linda brought mom to me. And I feel like it’s good timing.  I’ll put her on my bookshelf (next to Smokie’s ashes now) and I’ll talk to her when I need someone to listen but not answer.

It’s hard to not wonder what mom would be like now. Would all these grandchildren and great grand-children have filled up the hole my brothers’ death left in her heart?

The passage of time has given me the gift of perception.  

Each year that passes without my mom- I realize something new about her. 

I'm glad she is here with me now. I won't argue or be defiant. I'll try to remember the wise things she told me when my hearing was sharp but my ears heard nothing. 

It's More Than Cooking

I realized yesterday- yep just yesterday, that the most important life lessons I have taught my son- I taught him in the kitchen. Long before the Marine Corps taught him to adapt and overcome- I had him adapting recipes to overcome our sometimes-wanting food bins.

He learned in my kitchen- my philosophy on compromise. Those of you who know me- know I take issue with compromise just for the sake of making people happy. Well- it’s the same with cooking and baking. If the recipe calls for butter- use butter. Period. Margarine should not even be in the house. If you are broke-or have a broken hip and can’t make it to the store – and you have to have mashed potatoes- and you only have margarine- well maybe you can use it then (although you will ruin your mashed potatoes). Never – never use it in cookies- unless you are making some sort of special margarine flavored cookies I don’t know about.

I taught him about the importance of generosity in our kitchen. No matter how broke I have ever been- I will have enough food for anyone that happens to come by. I can make three dinners out of one chicken breast, a little pasta and a can of peas. No peas? Corn will work, or spinach or green beans. No matter how little food we had- we always had enough to feed another person or two. I see him do the same now. He will give away his last dollar, his last cigarette, his last breath if need be.

He learned the importance of having good tools- and making due with the next best thing if those tools were not available. A sharp knife is the most important tool in the kitchen.

It’s in the kitchen that we shared the most stories and the most fun. Family recipes always have stories attached to them. Stories of survival, ingenuity, mistakes… and successes. It’s easy to talk when you are busy doing other things... it’s less intense- more casual. Even the sad tales of being broke and eating spaghetti 10 days in a row don’t seem so sad when you are cooking and telling how you perfected the sauce. For those of us who push emotions away and try to keep an even keel- talking while cooking is the answer. You can cry while chopping onions.

I think the most important thing he learned from me in the kitchen is to have passion in what you do and it will always make it better. I know I am always more animated, more alive, more fun- when I am cooking or baking. I love food- and I love to make people happy with food. There is a reason why all of our celebrations have food. It’s a peace offering, it’s love, it’s friendship, it’s sharing, it’s family. (blood and otherwise)

When Nick was born his dad and I were no longer together. We agreed though- that he (Jon) could be in charge of his left brain-because he is über smart and I could be in charge of his right brain as a default prize.

Now- I am glad it worked out that way. I realize now all the left-brain things one needs to learn in life- are taught through right brain activities. Funny how that all works out.Cooking is both a left and right brain activity- but the ingenious part, the thing that makes my cookies better than someone else's is all right brain stuff. (and butter)

Yesterday, when I went to San Francisco to bring my son some of his mama’s lasagna, he was outside in front of his friends’ house and they were BBQ’ing tritip & crab legs. His melting pot of friends all contributing some how to the celebration of food were all smiling and full of life. The twenty somethings realizing what many sixty somethings never do- that life is really all about friends, family and what we can do for other people.

So many older people think young people are self-absorbed. But I saw sharing and friendship and a large dose of ingenuity in their little street feast. They taught me something in their outdoor kitchen.

Two Steps Forward

Lately, I have been watching as my Marine Parents friends post about their Marines EAS’ing. (End of Active Service) All of them are joyous about this event. Some of them may be skeptical about how things will work out- and rightly so. Our sons left as boys and came back men. Men with scars.

In our group, my son was one of the first to get out. In October 2007, I quietly seized my magnifying glass and started watching his every move. When his three-year marriage fell apart after 6 months out of the Marine’s and he came to stay with me, my scrutiny increased. Oh, I was cool. I practice what I preach. I didn’t tell him what he should or shouldn’t do. I never said pick up your room (I didn’t need to) and his bathroom was always spotless. He smoked but respectfully, outside and away from my sensitive lungs. He drank some beers and sometimes gin. I said nothing. Well- I probably gave him some looks. Those of you who know me… know I would have to give some looks. It was great to have him around- but we both knew- it wouldn’t last long. He needed his privacy. He had been on his own a long time.

I tried not to talk about his time in Iraq. If he mentioned it, I listened. I knew of a few horrific incidents and I didn’t need to know much more than that to understand that he would need time to heal.

He signed up for classes and didn’t care about them at all. He took filler classes in order to get his GI BILL money. He moved to San Francisco to a trendy part of town where he could hang out with other people who like to read, write and solve problems. He found a bar he could go to where no one bugs him. An old people’s bar he says, where they have trivia games and good beer.

I saw some slipping and sliding. He had some bad days. He tried his hardest to be Zen. But, you know, people always mess that up. If I was trying to gauge if he needed help I asked him abstractly. “What do you think Vets need right now?” He knew what I was doing, but somehow it made it easier to talk. He told me what they needed. He said upon their exit, they should be given orders to report to their civilian job in 2 weeks, or a month… and that their civilian job should be sensitive to the needs of a Vet. (VA days, PTSD etc.) (The jobs could be mostly Gov’t jobs at civic centers, state, city, forestry or park & rec. etc. and temporary so people could rotate in/out.) They need to get normal fast.

Nick found the whole job hunting experience demeaning. His infantry training, Security Force training and leadership training didn’t mean anything to the places he thought he should apply. Borders Books didn’t even want to know about his military experience. Preferring he left those four years blank. (At his request, I did get involved in that and they ended up rewriting their applications after I battered them for a year.) “Can you run a cash register?” one of them asked. He pivoted and left. They were too stupid.

Now- August 2010. Almost three years later. I see healing. Oh, I know he may still have bad days from time to time. But a couple of weeks ago he text me to tell me that he was in a crappy mood, he didn’t want to talk to anyone, but was thinking about me, and wanted me to know that he loves me. I already know that- but the progressive part of this was he was letting me know he was going underground for a day or two- so I wouldn’t have to worry. That was good.

Tonight he called and said that he was listening to a Willie Nelson album and thinking of me. I told him I blasted Willie Nelson to him while I was pregnant with him, but he remembered it from later when I drove my old ‘78 Nova back and forth to his Dad’s to get him and bring him the 50 miles back to my house- and we listened to Willie Nelson & Leon Redbone full blast -all the time. (Maybe this is how I lost my hearing? )

He told me that got signed up for his classes at San Francisco State University. He got the classes he wanted and he sounded happy. Now happy is what I have been waiting for. I’m happy now too. He also said he was getting organized- with an actual organizer. Wow, I said. Maybe you could help me get organized.

Sometimes life is two steps forward and three back. But, I have a feeling my kid has actually turned some corner here. The only thing that will make me happier is when the rest of my friends can say- Welcome Home Marine- put your civilian clothes on and just take your time unwinding.

AmeriCorps Video And Photo Contest

AmeriCorps Video And Photo Contest

What to Say to Military Families

There are two kinds of people you should never mess with in this world. The first would be a nursing mother and the second would be the mother of a deployed Marine, soldier, sailor or airmen. Actually- make that mother or father and include any stage of service then double it if they are deployed, and triple it if they are deployed Marines.

I was a nursing mother. I remember tug-o-wars with the baby and his paternal grandmother when it came time to feed him she would pull him close to her and say, “Ill feed him.” I would have to put my arms around him and gently pry him back, “No that’s okay, I’m breastfeeding him remember?” Inside I would be boiling over. What was wrong with her? Did she not realize this is something only a mother can do?

If you are not the parent/loved one of someone in the military - then I am going to refer to you as a civilian. Please do not be offended, it’s the only way I can differentiate the people who have been introduced to the military world via their children- and the people who have not.

I stopped or limited talking to more than a few good friends and family when my son joined the Marine Corps. No one understood what it was like. The swelling pride was never stronger than the relentless fear. My friends and family tried to understand- but they didn’t.

“I missed my daughter when she went to college too, you’ll get used to it.” One gal said.

Oh really? Were they shooting at her in that school?

I found a website www.marineparents.com where I could relate to people. They didn’t think I was over the top in either pride or fear. As the years went by, I realized a common theme among us. Civilians just did not “get it.”

Stupid comments from unknowing loved ones, friends and strangers could bring us to our knees. How could they not understand- that at night most of us were lying in bed thinking about how we would survive if anything happened to our kids in a war that so few of us (if any) understood? And if we were lucky enough to sleep- our very first thought, before our eyes even opened, every single day was please don’t let anything happen to my child.

“I don’t want my tax dollars going to this war.” I was once told. Really? Because your tax dollars are going to help buy the equipment, my son and all his buddies need you piece of crap.

“I don’t believe in this war- Bush is sending all these kids to die for oil.” Even if this was true- it is NOT something you should ever say to a deployed parent.

“Is he somewhere safe?” No, like I said- he is in Iraq.

“You should just stay busy- then you won’t have so much time to worry.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“This war is all about money and everyone is dying for greed.”

“I heard the Marines are killing women and children.”

“He’ll just be there for a couple of months, right?”

Like nursing mothers, we are protective and ready to strike anyone that means to harm our children. Stupid words are like swords to the heart. For me the very worst was when someone I worked with told me if my son were to die in Iraq, he would not go to heaven because he was not saved (born again). I used a year’s worth of tolerance on that one statement. I cried for days- and I never went back to work. It didn’t matter that my son calls himself Buddhist, it only mattered that someone I called a friend was so thoughtless.

Keep your politics to yourself. I don’t care if someone has 30 flags on their car and 30 Semper Fi stickers- don’t say I hope they kill all those Muslim bastards. Because the person you are talking to just might be Muslim. Muslims are serving too- alongside my Buddhist, and Jewish and Christians. Don’t make it about your hang-ups and prejudices. And really- parents do not want to hear about their kids having to kill anyone. Fact or not… it’s not up for discussion with civilians.

So what should you say to a parent of someone in the military?

You must be so proud.

Please, thank him for his service.

Good for him/her.

I know you will worry- so if there is anything you every need- here is my number- call anytime.

What does he/she need?

What can I send?

Can I write to him/her?

I’ll keep him/her in my prayers.

I was in Nam, if he ever needs anything here is my number.

My fellow Marine Parents were all I could really talk to for a few years. They knew that some days we would be crazy and other days depressed. It was a very manic four years. Either pulling the covers over my head and waiting for the anxiety attacks to go away or going 100 MPH cleaning house or baking cookies to ship oversees.

Many of the friends I made from the website turned out to be dear friends. I will never forget the kindness of people I had never met, who sent me cyber hugs and long emails just checking in. Some are friends who I ended up meeting in person and who I love dearly. And even a few I still have not met in person but I have a strong connection to- I call my friends. Fortunately, my old friends –are still my dear friends too.

There were civilians who gathered care packages for Nick’s unit, who baked for him and his brother’s in arms, people who never talked about the politics of war- just the human element- the one we all already knew. War is unbearable for parents and loved ones. Some of these people I knew and some I didn’t, but they all have my gratitude.

Right now I have a few friends whose son’s are deployed to Afghanistan. I hope I can hold them up as well as they held me up when Nick was deployed. We are all war weary now. Deployment fatigued and oohrah’ed out, gray hair and weight gain our battle scars. It’s for them that I sat to write this today because I know how they feel. Don’t talk to me unless you have been in my shoes is what we think in our heads. That is how we all feel, though we try to not broadcast it. We don’t mean to exclude people who love us, but honestly- it’s like the nursing mother syndrome. Hormonally unbalanced due to fear, and hyper vigilant in our protection- our minds will not accept anything that may harm our child- even words. Don't mess with us.