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For Families, War Is Only About Fear

It never occurred to me that my children could die. I mean, I didn't think about it. Not once since the glorious days of sweet faces and scabby knees. Our small town was as safe as anywhere could be.

But eight weeks ago, I waited at the airport for my soldier-son's return from Iraq and I contemplated 3000 other mothers whose children died in the sand there. As do most Americans, I have strong feelings about war in general and that war in particular, but when your family has a loved one's life on the line every single day, none of that matters. Politics suddenly loses all meaning world issues, pushed out of your head, are replaced with anxiety.

My kids work for the U.S. Government. One son, 26, drives an Army Paladin, a self-propelled canon. Daughter, 21, is in her third year of Navy service aircraft electronics tech. My eldest is an intelligence agent.

When they left home, I was proud, of course. They chose jobs they felt would somehow allow them to mitigate America's Sept 11. Small town life seemed unlikely preparation for the war against terrorism. I was mildly apprehensive, as mothers are.

Thinking back, I remembered a time when, at three years old, my now soldier son messed with a wasp nest and earned himself a dozen stings. I righteously nursed his wounds, feeling angry at the universe for setting up pitfalls to endanger my little boy. In 2003, two decades later, at his boot camp graduation, I watched a mockup of the skirmishes of war, and I longed to face, again, those innocuous stings.

While pyrotechnics left spots in my eyes and harmless explosions boomed in my chest, I struggled with tears and an eerie sense of something I couldn't name. Those new soldiers' average age was about 18. The Cosmos had a wake-up call for them that no mother on earth could forestall.

That I couldn't shield him anymore confused me. I hugged him, murmuring congratulations and cherishing the blessed knowledge that he was not bound for Iraq. His unit, the 2BCT, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, had been based in Korea since the 1950s. They were part of the culture there indispensable now that the North-South thing was heating up in that country.

A few weeks later, my son called. I expected the usual slightly blue, rookie-screw-up stories and the pleasant back and forth chit chat we enjoyed. He sounded odd. I shrugged off a quick chill.

"So," he said. "They're moving us to another theater."

I know now, that's what they call war - a theater. Ironic visions of

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