Sunday, June 18, 2006

It’s 4:30 on father’s day. We are taking Tim to the government center at Kings and Baxter to meet his recruiting officer, Staff Sgt. Tobin. As we arrive it is evident there will be quite a group of recruits going. As parents and siblings spring from the family vehicles I notice the strain of worry on the parent’s face. It matches my own. It is a face of the realization we no longer have the sole right to ensure our child is carefully watched over and nurtured. Am I dropping off a Momma’s boy? Lord no! We have five children and Tim is number four. We have three children that have moved away from home and of which two have married and had children of their own. What makes this different is the fact that we no longer will be the guiding force in the direction of their life, the “at hand” ability to rescue or the quick access by phone, email or in person. But most of all, these young men will most assuredly face an unknown threat that most Americans cannot fathom.

We gather in the hallway outside the recruiting office. None of the parents have mustard the courage to enter the confines of the “mean talking Marines” greeting our sons. I am no wilting pansy and throw caution to the wind and cross over that threshold. Okay, so I settle three feet in the doorway next to a metal contraption they make them do pull-ups on. Still, it is further than the other parents and my husband. All the recruits already know each other as they all entered the delayed entry program (DEP) months ago. You can tell they are nervous by their boasting and loud talking.

Each recruit is taken in a back room individually to be grilled on “private” matters. Each come back shortly and has a seat. All with the exception of one. He brings a fist full of pocket knives out and gives them to his Mom still hiding in the hallway. I think to myself, the difference between men and boys is the prospect of new toys. I prefer the pocket knives to grenade launchers, ied’s and automatic weapons. Let the boy keep the pocket knife. Let him stay a boy. Do I really want that? No. Everyone has to grow up. Not that pocket knives are juvenile, but that he has to release something so cool in order to take a giant step into manhood.

I stand there realizing that I am analyzing each recruit through my strict momma’s eye trying to forecast each one’s success in this endeavor. Several were wearing flip flops, unshaven and no belts. Some recruits are on the brink of weight restriction. Some poor drill instructor is gonna be hoarse this week. Already some are not listening or following instruction. I hope the platoon doesn’t suffer for it. If so, Tim you chose this. Haha! And you thought the chore of making tea every day was rough.

For months we have cautioned him that it will not be a walk in the park. Of course this was preamble to us making him cut the grass or finish his senior exit.

As more and more parents brave the Marine Corps office it is evident, I am not the only one struggling to let go. The trivial becomes vital as we check to make sure they have money, id, diploma’s and of course addresses. We begin pounding each recruiter with questions such as will they feed them tonight? When we they be able to call home? What will be their address? When is graduation? But the most asked question I heard was, Will you supply them with a Bible? It all comes down to faith. Faith that comes from being up countless long nights with a fevered child that pulls through, faith that comes from being a believing caterpillar that has survived the brutal battle to be free of a cocoon.

God help us. God watch over them.