Just Cream, No Sugar

I made coffee this morning and put in my usual amount of milk. I suddenly realized that, for me, the milk had nothing to do with how it made the coffee taste, more with how it looked.

I remember when I was younger, watching my dad, an avid coffee-drinker, prepare his coffee. It would start out black as black. He would pour creamer in and I’d watch it swirl in union with the coffee’s inky blackness as the spoon tinked with the sides of the mug. I was mesmerized by the beverage’s metamorphosis into a soft, caramel brown.

I watched my dad a lot, his mannerisms, the way he fixed things, the way he conversed with others, the way he swore. If he hit his thumb with a hammer he’d say, “Ssssssson-of-a-bitch!” Lengthening the sss sound and rushing through the rest of the expletive. I remember being very, very young - 4 maybe - we were at some dressy event like a wedding and I can recall studying the way my dad was standing. I then proceeded to walk over in front of him and ape his stance. I’m glad someone snapped a photo of me doing this; it’s one of my favorite pictures of my childhood because I was so young but remember copying him so vividly.

I am not sure what about my dad captivated me so. Maybe his eccentricity, his intelligence, his knack for bullshitting, his artistic ability, his musicality. He’s…a lot of things. I understand why he and my mom didn’t work out but I know he still loves her fiercely.

My dad turns 72 today and in the 31 years I’ve known him, I’m sad I don’t know him more deeply than I do, probably both our faults.  I don’t know about his family, how he grew up, how he did academically or if he played sports. I don’t know how he learned to play the guitar or even what his political standing is.

But I know that he talks with his hands, his favorite tool is black electrical tape, he can talk circles for hours, he liked to smoke Lucky Strikes and profanity does not phase him.

 And I know exactly how much cream to put in my coffee to achieve that same soft, caramel brown color. That’s something no one else knows.


Happy Birthday Dad. I love you and all of your unknown.

Don't Be All You Can Be

One of my co-workers today said that her son wants to join the Navy Seals. Initially I envisioned an 8 year old boy with an imagination running rampant, running around with a soldier’s helmet on making explosion noises and crashing toy helicopters into things.  Then I realized, my co-worker’s son is not 8 years old. He’s 21. And serious.

Immediately I ask, “Are you freaking out? What did you say? Is he doing this because of the glorification of Seal Team Six? I would totally be freaking out - are you freaking out?” As if I was one who had any right to ask such inappropriate questions. Then I stole the shoes off her feet and put them on mine and wanted to cry. What if someday my daughter (or son whom I haven’t had yet) comes to me at a tender age and tells me they want to serve our country. I could lie and say I would be proud and honored that I had produced such an unselfish human being. But I wouldn’t. If I’m being honest, I totally wouldn’t. Because being that child’s mother trumps all things. It trumps pride, honor, common sense, all things material, all things immaterial; loving that child and keeping them safe so I can cherish every moment I can with them while I am on this earth is priority one, far beyond anything else in this world. Selfish, yes. Can I help it? Nope.

So, if my child tells me they want to go through horrendous training that pushes them to their limits both mentally and physically, then go throw themselves into harm’s way to protect our country, my initial thought is to cry hysterically and then lock up my child and throw away the key. Then open a bottle of whiskey.

I am not anti or pro military, war or defense. I don’t like it but understand that it is a necessity although I’m unsure as to what measure. I understand these things are part of our past, present and future and that there will be no end to them, at least within the next few generations. Perhaps my indifference comes from the fact that I’ve not been directly affected by all that stuff. My Dad served but he doesn’t talk about it so I’m not sure to what extent. I have had no close relatives die in war and the wars of my generation have paled in comparison to past wars – if you can even compare wars – they’re all awful.

I am however extremely thankful for those who serve. I cannot even begin to wrap my mind around the strength, courage and selflessness it takes to offer yourself to the cause. It really is baffling.

You’d think that if my child bore those qualities and offered their service, I’d be proud and ecstatic that I could raise such a being. But no. I’d be sad and heart-broken and in a state of constant worry, even more than I already am. I’d trade places if I could but the government would probably refuse my service on account of my age, my lack of physical fitness, my bad knee and the ease with which I can cry and be a big, fat sissy. I can’t think of something I wouldn’t do to save my child from potentially sacrificing themselves for the common good. Weird right? How could such a selfish person produce something so selfless?

After continuing to probe my co-worker about her son’s decision I learned that enlisting is the first time in his life he’s ever been so driven. He had no knack for school, struggled through two years of college and found himself passionless and without motivation. Now he wants to be a Navy Seal. That’s his calling, his thing. His mother asked, “Why the Seals?” And he replied, “If I’m going to do something, I want to be the best of the best,” and she said he’s never talked about anything with as much passion as making this commitment. He’s talked to countless recruiters and current Seals. He’s educated himself about the process, what it means, what to expect. He’s done his research and this is where his fire burns. I guess that’s the kind of guy (or gal) I want serving our country and protecting us and our freedoms; one who knows what s/he’s getting into and is 100% sure it is what s/he wants to do. This makes me sad to think of the drafting days when unwilling men were forced to serve.

Ultimately, if I am as good a parent as I think I am, I suppose I will have to support my child’s decision in whatever path they choose, even if it doesn’t fall into my hopes and dreams for them. I didn’t have children so they could do what I want them to do. This doesn’t guarantee that I won’t lock them up for a few days so they can think about it; I just won’t throw away the key.