Get My Drift?

So, I don't mind telling you, dearest reader - this was a hard weekend.

I haven't heard from my soldier son in 60 days. No one-liners, nothing. Not a peep.

I know, practically speaking, that he is alive and well, because he's in the Army of course, not just wandering around Bagdad like some strung-out college student. However, I am his mother. Get my drift?

It's to the point that, when I think about it, I get something akin to a panic attack - my heart starts pounding, it becomes very difficult to breath, the tears spring up. I concentrate on taking shallow breaths and dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands. The pain usually jolts me back to normal. If you've never tried it, you'd be amazed at how effective that is.

And unfortunately, I have to think about it all the time - because the first question out of most well-meaning peoples' mouths is, "Have you heard from Chris?" So I go through my little routine, put a smile on my face, and say, "Not lately."

I swear, if I survive this without a cardiac incident or a stroke - I'm nominating myself for an Oscar.

Well, in addition to keeping a tally of contact-less days, I saw some young kid in a uniform this weekend. For my non-local followers, we are 150 miles from the nearest military base, so this isn't something you see every day around here. I took my youngest to McD's on Saturday, and there was GI Joe.

I wanted to say hi. I wanted to thank him for volunteering his life. I wanted to pay for this breakfast, because no US serviceman should ever have to pay for his own fast food, at least not when I'm in line in front of him. But all I did was smile....because just THINKING about doing any of those made me want to sob, right there in the middle of McDonald's. So I dug my fingernails into my palm and ate my Sausage McMuffin.

I tell myself that my son is in God's hands, and He can protect Chris much more effectively than I ever could. But I miss my son. I want my son with me. I want to hear his goofy laugh. I want to sit next to him in church. I want to make his lunch.

I am his mother. Get my drift?