I've had a string of bad days. All the tiny things added up to a mountain that overwhelmed me yesterday, and I cried at work. I hate when I do that. But when I discussed my day last night with a glass of tequila, tequila helped me figure out that the root of all my anxiety is my son's impending deployment to Iraq. It happens in 16 days.
It's unlikely that I'll get to see him before he goes, and I haven't seen him since June. I haven't seen him much in the last four years, and he's only 22. So, basically, I've missed out on almost one-sixth of his life. Here comes another year, when he'll be on the other side of the world, in a not-so-nice place. And trust me, time goes by slowly when someone you love is at war.
I've often thought about the mothers who have sent their sons off to war. The ancient Roman mothers, the Greeks, every other mother throughout history - none of them knowing when or if their boys would come back.
At least I have the internet, instead of messenger pigeons.