Armor on or off?
For those of you who have been following the blog for a while, you may remember I wrote that my son was being deployed to Iraq. Well, he’e2’80’99s back in the States for a while, somewhat leathery from the climate but intact, and although he’e2’80’99ll be going back in a few months, for the time being the anxiety level has fallen to the standard maternal throb in the back of the head.
Which makes the dream I had this morning interesting. I’e2’80’99m talking to my son, and break off to tell him that I have to get going, but first I need to retrieve something hidden in the back of my closet. The closet, perhaps inevitably, is filled with books (not actually’e2’80’94I keep my books on shelves when I can) and I have to pull them out and stack them up to reach behind them for’e2’80’94the AK47 I have been issued. I hand him the gun because I know it will interest him (the AK47 was the Soviet equivalent of our M16 in Vietnam, and like the M16 is still in use in much of the world), then I give him a kiss and tell him to wish me well, and doesn’e2’80’99t he think it’e2’80’99s funny that his Mom is now off to basic training?
The odd thing is, I’e2’80’99ve been thinking lately about the lines, ‘e2’80’9cLet him not boast who puts his armor on/As he who puts it off, the battle done’e2’80’9d in the context of the tour, as if I’e2’80’99m finished the hard part of the year and can now rest on my laurels. In fact, however, I am only buckling the rewrite armor onto me, a much tougher proposition than being wined and dined while talking to people about that fascinating subject, me.
Apparently my subconscious thinks otherwise.