Remembering Mac

This is a little overdue, but here goes.

On Memorial Day, I agreed to go with my dear friend to attend the Memorial Day Service at the cemetery as well as to see her husband's grave. I had never been to see his grave in the 8 months since he's been gone, nor had I ever gone to a ceremony on Memorial Day. I wasn't sure what to expect or what kind of emotions would hit me, and since she acted as though it was a normal thing, I decided I needed to as well.

First of all, veteran cemeteries are such quiet battlefields. To walk among the headstones and see the names of men and women, young and old, serving from previous conflicts to the present one was like walking on pages of my high school history book. As we arrived at his particular grave before the service started, I slowed my pace in the muddy grass while the rain thumped on my rain jacket. His site is on the corner of a large plot of other graves, all lined up with such precision you could measure angles by them. Others had already left mementos for him: a single yellow daisy on top, a grocery store quality bouquet laid on the grass in front, a red flag with the letters "KIA" being soaked by the rain, a red white and blue pinwheel on the other side of the stone. His wife with their 3 month old daughter strapped to her front leaned down to place her bouquet of red roses front and center, commenting earlier how she, "should've gotten something more patriotic looking," instead of roses.

I clicked photos of the three of them, she bending down to be at his level, and I could only think, something is so wrong with this picture. He shouldn't be down there while these two beautiful girls are up here. I looked up and down the rows of the fallen and wondered if he was truly glad he sacrificed as he did. If he knew how much his baby had his forehead or opened her eyes wide like him when she jibbered...if he knew how much his wife cried when the house was quiet...would he still have given up his life so willingly? Would he have made comments like, "If I die when I go out there today"? Would he have taken more care in filling out the worst-case-scenario paperwork before he deployed?

We continued walking in the pouring rain down the boulevard lined with limp American flags until we got to the service site. A community band played off to the side, old men stood in ill-fitting uniforms smiling to themselves, kids ran around in their galoshes splashing through puddles, and flags with eagles, ships, stars, and anchors hung about the stage. Other women supporting my friend found her and pointed us where to go, googling and ahh-ing over her little one, and we stood under a giant golf umbrella in the rain as the ceremony started.

I don't remember much of what was said or it being anything of grand significance, but the scene is stamped in my brain. Spouses' arms around one another; hands over hearts as songs and pledges came over the sound system; the sun shining through for about 8 minutes; an eagle soaring overhead with his familiar cry. And at the end when they read off the KIA servicemen names, I touched my friend's arm as his familiar name sounded like glass being dropped on concrete.

We walked back to the car in the rain and as I saw families walking through the graves with their young children, it hit me. This is a day that no longer means barbecues, camping trips, swimming, or a nice long weekend to do yard work. This day now means a time to honor those who gave up so much, like a sweet young wife and adorable baby girl. I've only gotten a glimpse of what being a military family is like, but the respect I have for the men, women, and children who call this their life...who risk everything to serve ungrateful Americans...who are easily forgotten after the evening news reports of their death...I'll carry that respect forever.

God is calling my family to something different and that means leaving the military after my husband has served so faithfully for all of his adult life. I can only imagine the feelings that he will go through during that transition, but I can speak for myself and say that I will never look back on our time in the service as a black spot in our history. I never want to say, "So glad THAT'S over with," because look how much being a dependent has taught me. Look how much I've learned about all those who are lifers. Look at how many amazing opportunities have been given to me. I would have never met the group of people that I now call my best friends nor would I have appreciated their struggles as I do now. I am privileged and proud to say my husband is in the U.S. Army, even with all of their shenanigans, backward philosophies and low pay. I am proud to be an Army wife and proud to live in this country, as Toby-Keith-cliche as that sounds.

Next year I want to start the tradition of visiting soldiers' graves or going to a service, even if Ethan is too young to understand. I want him to know why there's a day set aside and why it's important to our family and to so many other families. We will barbecue and swim and pull weeds, but we will remember our dear friend with a bouquet of roses on his grave and his daughter who will continue his memory simply by smiling.

A+ Mom

I am going to be the best mother.

The end.

(What if I ended the post right there?)

No, friends, I will not be the best mother. But I'm damn going to try! I've been with myself for almost 24 years now and I can say with confidence that I know my tendencies. I'm neurotic. I'm a perfectionist. A go-getter, a suck-up and a people-pleaser.

Great qualities for a first-time mom, right? Eesh. I'm scared for myself.

I'm reading the best parenting books and researching which detergent is best, how to make your own baby wipes, the best schedules for eating, wake time, and sleep time. I have statistics, other mothers' wisdom, !!SCIENCE!! (never would have thought I, as an English major, would ever use science...how silly). When other [less-informed] mothers [of kids not so well-behaved] comment on their techniques or struggles, I nod with focused eyes and let out the appropriate number of mhms and yeahs, but inside I'm saying, "CLEARLY she hasn't read ___ by ___," or, "that's not what I learned in my class," or, "her baby would be better if she did __, __, and __."

Afterward I think exclamation point thoughts:

You're becoming one of those mothers!
You think you know everything and you don't have any kids yet!
You're so full of yourself!
You'll get the kid who makes you wonder if demons inhabit babies!

Then the caps lock thoughts:

JUST YOU WAIT MISSY! YOU'RE GOING TO REGRET ALL OF YOUR HIGH AND LOFTY GOALS!

Here's where my perfectionism really kicks in. I think that because I'm aware of how I'm a perfectionist that somehow that awareness will help me to be less of a perfectionist. I then can strike the perfect balance of a mother who is in charge and has a beautifully adapted, respectful, well-behaved child and also deals with spit-up shirts, greasy unshowered hair, a messy car interior that smells tangy, and crud under my child's fingernails.

Basically, in attempting to not be perfect, I want to be the perfect, imperfect mother.

I don't want to make mistakes, and if I do I want them to be minor...like I taught him to read too soon and now he's going straight to first grade instead of kindergarten. I want to have all of the available knowledge on how to handle things so that I can be informed, make smart decisions, have responses to people's questions. I want my son to get the best of me. As a person who hates working, the idea of a career, the 9-5 gig, a person who quits jobs after a few months if I get bored...this is the one job I don't want to screw up.

But I know I am. In the back of my head is the voice that says let go now, Allison, and life will be so much easier. Enjoy each awkward, messed up, imperfect moment. Embrace the mismatched outfits, the spit-up on your blouse, the tangy smelling car, the toys scattered in every crack and crevice. Love your boy...feed him food and give him baths...keep your marriage as a priority and don't become a parent obsessed with her child.

Because ultimately, he isn't mine. God gave him to us and God can take him away. In fact the whole premise of parenting seems backwards: do everything you can to love him so he can leave someday. The goal is to get him out as a contributing human to society and man of God...not keep him like a little pet.

(I'm getting misty-eyed thinking of him in a cap and gown at graduation or in a tux watching his bride come down the aisle....I SO am that mother already!)

I'm going to try to be perfect because that's just me. And I have confidence that I'm going to do a lot of great things. I know, however, that I'm going to do a lot of not so great things and that's ok.

I'm going to get on my knees every morning and ask God for what I need for THAT day and pray I do alright. I'm going to ask questions, read books, search parenting forums...but in the end I'm going to make mistakes. I'm going to love him to pieces. I'm going to TRY to not let other people bully me into being this kind of parent or that kind of parent. I'm going to snap a lot of pictures and scribble a lot of notes. I'm going to look at his sweet face and look for my husband in his features so I remember who came first. I'm going to laugh about the food crusted in his hair after a nap. And I'd like to sleep more than I organize his sock drawer.

That's all I can really do as an imperfect mother trying to be perfect.