Leaving the ones you love behind

A photograph on the cover of Thursday's Los Angeles Times caught my eye and put a flutter in my stomach. A young woman in camouflage fatigues wearily clutched a bottle of milk to the lips of her five-month old son, who was squirming in his father's arms. The woman, a specialist in the Army, was about to deploy to Iraq and leave her young son behind.

That little boy is only a month older than William. His mother has only been a mother for a month longer than I have. And she must leave her baby at home and go to war. The cutline on the photo didn't say how long the deployment would be, but I imagine it will be at least six months, maybe even a year.

Now, I am all for equality for both genders in the military. I believe that if men have to go to war, then it's not right to exclude women. They should have equal opportunities and responsibilities, in my opinion. If you join the Army (or the Navy or the Marines), then you serve, regardless of your gender.

But my stomach turned over for that young soldier, the woman about to leave her young son and go to a foreign country half a world away. I can't imagine leaving William for more than a few hours, much less for months, let alone for months in a dusty, war-torn country where I don't speak the language or understand the culture. I can't imagine kissing my son's little round cheeks and knowing that I won't get to kiss his cheeks again while he's still a baby. That little boy in the newspaper photo will be crawling, walking, maybe even talking by the time his mother comes home. He'll be taller and heavier when she comes home. His cheeks might be thinner, as he outgrows some of his pre-mobile baby fat, by the time she comes home. He might not even remember her, not really, when she comes home.

If she comes home.

I had to put the newspaper aside so that I wouldn't keep looking at the picture and agonizing over it. And yet here I am, writing about it because I can still see it in my mind. I still ache for that mother. I've been trying to hold William close as much as possible, to capture that elusive sweet baby scent and store it permanently in my brain, because at least I have the chance to be with him every day. I wake up and see him every day, and I get to kiss his cheeks and listen to him laugh and watch him clutch a soft new toy with clumsy little hands.

I am so, so lucky.