It’s 12:02 a.m. and he leaves today. My son. My only son. My firstborn child is now a Marine. Just typing that sentence sends me into tears.

I was 18 when I had him. 36 when he graduated from high school last year. I have watched him grow and learn and become his own version of a man based on what he has seen modeled for him, for which I am both thankful and saddened. My son will be a strong family man. He will hold a work ethic higher than those of his peers and will reach for success beyond all other things. He didn’t choose to join the Marines because he had no other options. He did so because it’s been his dream for many years. It was the only branch ‘tough enough’ for him. The only challenge he wasn’t certain he could meet, and therefore he had to set his sights on conquering.

As I imagine his tiny face laughing at me as he was cutting his first teeth…as I remember the videos of his 2nd birthday party…as I can picture each stage of his development and treasure it like a precious gift, his middle sister sleeps with his necklace tightly in her hand. His youngest sister looks for his teasing yet loving comments on her choices, but finds only silence. His Dad was looking forward to a last visit before boot camp, but friends and family a few hours south were given the gift of his last few hours of freedom. I’m incredibly jealous.

I don’t blame him for running that way when the Mr. and I separated. I don’t blame him for being angry enough to not speak a single word to me since it happened. I knew everything when I was 18, too.

And then I became a mother. And went back to knowing nothing. And questioning everything.

I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.

Come home soon. Come home healthy. Just come home. Please.

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