About "the box"....

It finally dawned on me that someone who hasn't been through the whole loved-one-going-off-to-boot-camp bit might not know that "the box" I referred to contains the recruit's clothes, shoes, and any unauthorized items he or she might have had in their possession upon arrival at boot camp.

I'd already been warned that receiving the box can be disturbing.  I'm certain different people react in different ways, and maybe it doesn't bother some recipients.  Me, I cried.  I'm going to cry again when I open it.  Those clothes are the last physical links I have to my son.  I suspect it may be awhile before I can bring myself to wash them.  

It just feels very odd right now, like nothing will ever be quite the same, or even completely normal, again.  And in truth, nothing will be the same.  This is a point of radical disconnect in all of our lives, one that began when we said our goodbyes and left him with his recruiter, and ended today with the arrival of his clothes.  We're going to have to adjust to what my husband has been referring to as "the new normal", where we're here and he's there, and our lives are no longer intertwined to any significant degree....

I suppose all parents go through this to some degree.  Maybe this is what's referred to as empty nest syndrome, but I think there's more to it that just that.  It would be different if he were, say, away at college or living out on his own in another city.  He'd still be there, still be reachable if we needed him.  I could pick up the phone and hear his voice, even if only on his answering machine's or voicemail's outgoing message.  But where he is now, and where he will be after he finishes his "A" schools, prevents us from easy contact -- and could prevent us from any contact at all for extended periods, even in case of family emergency.  And that scares me.  I'm not sure why, but it does.

Give me some time and I'll adjust.  Life will go on, the routine will resume.

But for now, you'll just have to excuse me while I go cry into my son's dirty shirt.

Packages

I was going to write about something else, and will, but that post's going to have to wait. Right now I have something else on my mind that's a little. . . ah, of more immediate interest, one could say.  See, just about 10 minutes ago, the local FedEx driver delivered a package to my doorstep, one which I have been both expecting and dreading.

I normally enjoy seeing packages arrive, be they surprises from a friend or relative, an expected shipment containing something we've ordered, or "freebie" samples we've requested from a company.  Boxes containing books or teas are always high on our what's come today? list.  As you might imagine, bills (a necessary evil in life, unfortunely) and the IRS has a question for you letters fall to the very bottom of that list, where they fight it out with junk mail for the dredging sludge at the bottom of the pit spot.  The last (and only!) such letter we received from the IRS damn near gave me a heart attack right there at the mailbox.  My kids could easily have come home from school and found me sprawled dead in the street, still clutching the letter in my hands.  My first horrified thought when I saw it was that we we had been chosen for the quite dubious "honor" of being audited; I've never been so glad to be wrong in my life!   All these years later, I'm still trying to figure out how they managed to lose the back side of one of the two-sided forms I'd filled out.   But I suppose it's not for me to question; the IRS works in strange and mysterious ways and can totally screw up your life if you're foolish enough to draw their attention and anger them in doing so.  It's not a pretty sight when it happens.  I knew someone who was idjit enough to get into a pissing contest with the IRS.  He lost.  Big time.  And got targeted for a full audit every year for quite awhile thereafter.

I knew I didn't want to risk that fate, so I photocopied my file photocopies of all of the original forms I'd submitted (plus some of the supporting documentation I hadn't been required to actually submit, in the name of I-don't-want-to-get-yet-another-letter-because-they-also-lost-something-else complete disclosure), and mailed everything in via registered mail, just as quickly as was humanly possible.  I guess that made them happy, we never heard anything more on the issue.  But I digress much too far....

Boxes we weren't expecting can be fun too; usually they mean that The Grandparents have gone shopping and have sent something to our kids.  Aramis has traditionally been happier to see such packages arrive.  He's much easier to please than Porthos, who has very definite ideas about what he does and doesn't like, and can on occasion be somewhat less than tactful when expressing those opinions.  I suspect he'll learn a lesson or two about tact while he's in the military; if not from his instructors/superiors, then from squad mates he's managed to annoy.  ...Or should I more accurately describe them as "squid mates"?

Today's delivery is different.  I know what's in it.  And I don't want to open it.  Because if I do, it will mean that I've been quietly deluding myself to get through this last week's separation.  It will mean that I'm going to have to finally admit that my youngest son really isn't coming home for dinner after spending the day hauling wood or swimming with his buddies, because he is now Official U.S. Government Property; that it will be nearly two months before I can hug him again; and that for at least the next five years, we'll be lucky if we get to see him for even a few days a year.

For so long, I yearned for the day when I'd no longer be changing his diapers, or tying his shoes for him, or nagging him about homework, or ferrying him back and forth to school and sports because he was too young to drive, or signing extracurricular activity permission slips for him because he was a minor.  And that day came, and strangely enough, I wasn't ready for it at all.  He's a grown man now with a life of his own.  And I realize how much of a fool I was for all those years.

I want my little boy back....

Waiting...

He-who-claims-he-is-usually-ignored (my DH; let's call him "Athos") and I have been tied to the phone since mid-afternoon.  See, Youngest Son ("Squidboy") has gone off to boot camp, and should be calling this evening to let us know he's arrived.  It'll be the last time we'll get to hear his voice until 3 to 4 weeks into his training.  This separation is not going to be easy on those of us he's left behind.

Oldest Son ("Technogeek") still lives at home, and probably will until he finishes his post-secondary education and finds a full-time job with which to support himself.  The economy being what it is these days, that could take awhile, and there's no reason to waste money he doesn't have.  He gets free rent; we get tech support and computer maintenance out of the deal.  How cool is that?

So Squidboy's leaving home is a HUGE change for us.  Once he graduates from boot camp around the end of the year, he'll be sent halfway across the country for his military "A" schools.  After that, he'll be posted who-knows-where.

It's strange how we can spend so much time waiting for our children to grow up and become self-sufficient, yet be completely unready for it when it finally happens....

Right now I'd give my eyeteeth for him to call and ask me how to cook canned soup just one more time.  (He did that once when he was younger.  Called me at work and pulled me off a production line to get instructions, rather than taking the time to read the back of the can.)

Squidboy's got a good head on his shoulders and is quite capable of taking care of himself.    We're very proud to be able to claim him as our son.  But that won't keep me from worrying about him.

Note: Those few readers who have been here before might notice that my husband's pseudonym has changed.  He was afraid people might get the wrong idea about him from the other one.  His wish is my command!  Mostly.....