confessions of a security mom

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i've been sitting on this one for awhile now, because i hold our beloved mr. luse in very high regard. if you're a regular dropper-in around here, you've read mr. luse's article entitled who are the innocent? by now, and may have even left a comment at his site. i wanted to leave a comment after i first read his article, but could never get the right words formed and i don't know if i can now, but if i'm going to expose a major brain fart, i'd rather do it on my own turf.

since i began trying to formulate a rational, logical, manly sort of theory about this ugly topic some anonymous commenter has in fact left comments that i might try to stand behind -- but i don't generally trust anonymous commentators. that said, let the stream of consciousness, if not conscience, begin.

war is hell and then some. i hate thinking about war. to put it mildly, it gets me down. mind you, i'm a product of the eighties. i remember the cold war, and not just vaguely. red dawn and the day after were very real to me. oh sure, they were only films, but i vividly remember being afraid of "the bomb." in fact, i was quite young when i first saw a documentary on the devastation of hiroshima and nagasaki. the images my young brain photocopied are in there forever. those bad boys aren't going anywhere. i have nightmares to this day of one little boy weeping pitiably as a nurse - damn her crisp white nurses outfit - tried to hold his skin on his charred arm. that poor baby stared right into the camera and scared the hell out of me. if that is what his arm looked like, i was terrified to imagine what was under the bandages on his head. all i could think of while i was watching it was how badly the tears must burn his raw little face.

i was only a kid myself and i wondered if the russians would do the same to us. i remember asking my mom what i should do if russia ever started bombing. her answer? run outside. but, mom, wouldn't i die? yes -- if you're lucky.

when my husband came home from the first gulf war he shared stories that would curl your toes. he was a "tagger and bagger" -- a vulgar euphemism that gets you through that kind of ugly job -- and has no illusions. and while I have been extremely blessed to be so very isolated from really ugly death, i donít think i do either.

make no mistake, i have always loved my remote little ivory tower and i've always been quite cozy up here, thank you very much. but now i have children running through these gardens and i worry about the thorns below. i worry a lot.

i donít like death. i donít like war. i donít like innocents dying any more than our dear mr. luse. even the enemy has mothers. i know that. i want peace. i donít even like the death penalty. try as i might, i cannot be fully rational about this. is it because i am a woman? a mother? both? i get very emotional about the notion of death. especially painful death. for peteís sake, i donít even set rat traps because they seem so damn cruel.

and yet, if you come into my home, i will shoot you dead. if i can get to my gun, i will shoot a hole clean through your guts. and if i donít have a deadly weapon, i will do my level best to become one myself. i will fight tooth and nail for my life and i will fight for the lives of my children and those whom i love and i will do it until one of us is dead. and if this mother can protect her children, why can not my country do the same?

no, iím not going to grab a machine gun and mow down the neighbors to get to the intruder. but neither am i going to fling open wide my doors and say to the crack head passing by, hey you! iím in here with my wee ones. weíre unarmed and passive. please donít rape and murder us.

no, i boldly stake my security signs in my front and back yards: beware all who would do us harm.


So your saying we should knock before the next Avon open house?

My favorite president on mothers:
"No ordinary work done by a man is either as hard or as responsible as the work of a woman who is bringing up a family of small children; for upon her time and strength demands are made not only every hour of the day but often every hour of the night. She may have to get up night after night to take care of a sick child, and yet must by day continue to do all her household duties as well; and if the family means are scant she must usually enjoy even her rare holidays taking her whole brood of children with her. The birth pangs make all men the debtors of all women. Above all our sympathy and regard are due to the struggling wives among those whom Abraham Lincoln called the plain people, and whom he so loved and trusted; for the lives of these women are often led on the lonely heights of quiet, self-sacrificing heroism." --Theodore Roosevelt

Here's a link I thought you might appreciate:

Well written. I remember "The Day After" quite well and in fact just bought it for $9.99 at the grocery the other day. It brings back those times so well to watch it... the actresses weren't molded out of plastic into Barbie Dolls, the special effects didn't outshine the story, and the fright of the times was very real.

Thanks to your hubby for his service.

Dan (Eutychus Fell)

Roosevelt is not as enlightened as the ketchup lady. She, at least, understands that mothering is not a "real" job.

And thank you, Dan.

Teddy Roosevelt loved his wives, the one he lost and the one who mothered his large family. He loved his children without reservation. I grew up reading stories of how they rollicked over the White House. We need more presidents with that kind of family value!



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This page contains a single entry by smockmomma published on October 20, 2004 10:57 PM.

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