Postcards to the edge.

The kids survived their trip to the movie theater yesterday. My daughter managed to make it home before she broke out in tears and said, over and over again, “I want Mommy!” (We’re talking about a five year old here. She’s a little over the top, you think?) But I finally got them to tell me about the trip several hours later, and the general consensus was that they had fun. Which is a good thing, because they’re going over to Little T’s house again tomorrow – for a few hours, thank god. And they’re going to continue to go over there a day or two each week until school starts again. Or until I run out of money. Or until Little T’s mom shoves my kids out of the door of her minivan and burns rubber out of my driveway. Whichever comes first.


My son had a pre-paid postcard that is part of a campaign to send letters to the troops overseas. He brought it to me and said he wanted to mail it to the “hunters.” (The camouflage the soldiers wear and the camouflage your average hunter wears are one and the same to him. They are all “hunters” no matter what I tell him.) (And really, aren’t they all one sort of hunter or another at times? So he is probably more correct than I am comfortable admitting.) Anyway, he wanted to mail off this postcard. So I told him to go write something on it, and that we would mail it. The following is what he wrote:

“Dear Hunters,
I hope you are having a good time.
Love, E****”
Now, as a mom who wants her son to know nothing of the horrors of war and conflicts or even being away from your family in a hostile land, I didn’t say a thing to him about them probably not having much fun at all. I was just thankful that his writing was illegible, and that all you could make out was “Love, E****.” But I myself just can’t get over what he wrote. He’s a sweetie, and I’m glad he wants people to have a good time. And I’m sure that the soldiers have moments when they are not not having a good time. And then there’s the part of me who imagines shootings and all kinds of horrific horrors and hopes like hell that someone involved in that sort of thing is not having a good time! (As always, I go a little overboard in my thinking.)

So what did I do with the postcard? I mailed it. Or, rather, I let him mail it himself, and he was so happy.


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