The Three-Cornered Hat Principle

Clayton was barely six, Stuart was four, and Davis was not quite two when we took a family trip to Williamsburg, Virginia... love the history... top places ever... spent two days of our honeymoon there. Anyway, so we were on this family vacation taking in the history and having a great time walking until our feet hurt. We still had a stroller, and everyone wanted to get in...even me.
As in any tourist destination, there are always "things" that the tourist simply must have. On this particular trip, the "must-have" was the three-cornered hat. Every kid had one! I wanted mine to have one , too.
"It would make the pictures so much cuter," I whined, trying to persuade Jeff to buy one...errr, make that three. Let's just say the ole three-cornered hats times three were going to set us back quite a bit more than had been expected and, so, they did not come to be.
Still,the more we did not have the hats and the more people we saw with the hats, the greater the desire for the hats became. We went about our day. We took tons of pictures. We had lots of fun, but not having the three-cornered hats continued to rear its ugly head.

At the Beach

Fast forward several days to where we were back at our beach house taking in the surf, sand, and shell collecting.
Jeff observed, "You know, the three-cornered hats would really look silly about now." And we laughed at the silliness of how important they had seemed in the "Williamsburg moment".

Plebe Parent Weekend

Fast forward fourteen years into the future. Clayton is only weeks away from being twenty. We are at West Point for Plebe Parent Weekend (PPW).The "must-have" of this trip... the official standard-issue wool parka with the "USMA 12" patch sewn over the heart. It's a parka made by the West Point uniform factory and only Cadets, Old Grads, and parents are allowed to have them. So exclusive.
Jeff had planned in advance to purchase the parka ("Parka" is just not a term we would use in the South. Is it Yankee-ease or traditional WP-ease? I don't know. "Parkas" to a Southern mind are worn only by Eskimos in Alaska, but this one is navy blue thick wool with a zip- down- the- middle hood.), thus, he had not packed a coat knowing that his new official West Point parka would keep him warm. And it was a very cold day to our thin Southern blood.
I simply could not justify the $90.00 X 2, so I unselfishly allowed Jeff to make the parka purchase.

Everyone Had One

However,I still wanted one...REAL badly. When they were stitching on the "USMA 12" patch, I almost caved to the desire. But, I wisely revisited the "Three-Cornered Hat Principle". I pictured both Kinley parents showing up at high school football games both wearing the USMA 12 parkas and I knew it would be like being on the beach with the three-cornered hat and a bathing suit.
On the other hand, I knew if I couldn't wear a USMA 12 parka to an Army football game, then I should probably stay at home. "How many Army football games will you be attending?" I asked myself. (Maybe one...if I am fortunate.)
Many comments throughout the weekend were made by husband as to how warm and toasty he was because of his magical, new parka. Every parent had one...many husbands and wives. They were all I could see.
I held firm.

Parkas Continued to Look Cool at the Airport

At the airport, they still looked awesome as the parkas would distinguish the WP parents from the crowd.
Today, it was 68 degrees in Little Rock. For now, anyway, the parka's magic is fading. But, it looks great in the pictures....

My West Point Cadet's Xmas Leave '08 Homecoming (Mom Gets the First Hug!!!)

All My Pirates have Sailed Away

My babies were birthed in a rhythmic pattern every couple of years. After the third boy, my husband bought a personalized license plate which read, "3 Sons", and my childhood Barbie doll heads fell off ( a scary omen). I embraced the Mom-role enthusiastically, after which followed a flurry of themed backyard birthday parties.
There were also t-ball, soccer, and basketball teams. We never did the music lessons, however, because someone gave us a piano, and I stuck it in the playroom. No musical genius emerged or even gravitated toward it, but they did "take to" the computer and the video gaming console. Oh, well.
We had an acre backyard crowned with a massive spreading live oak tree. I lobbied diligently for my husband to build a tree house. Eventually, the tree house did come to be, complete with zipline. Sword fighting pirates and Jedis with light sabers began to fill the yard daily. (Historical anachronisms mean nothing to grade school boys.) The skull and crossbone flag flew proud and high in the live oak branches.
Eye patches, hooks, and swords were commonly found about the Kinleystead. There were many treasure hunts, and I could write the most challenging clues which my children became very skilled at cracking.
The pinnacle of our pirating was Stuart's 6th or 7th birthday party. I made Jeff, against his will, appear as Cap'n Hook. His very- cool costume was something my grandfather used to wear to some sort of masonic meeting, and I even blackened his face and teeth. He was more than a slightly grumpy participant. But, it was possible to rent a clown...just not a pirate...and I was desperate.
Anyone who has ever enjoyed a hummingbird feeder will understand that they hover about the garden, squeak and war against each other delightfully for a season. One day, abruptly without farewell, they are gone.
It's the same with Pirates. They just sail away. And leave the swords and eyepatches lifeless on the playroom floor.

Open Windows

My college guy called me last night. He wanted me to know that he had received his "Happy Fall" package and that it was awesome and would be great for weekend eating! He was extremely tired, as West Point Cadets tend to be, and was heading to bed early. So, after visiting briefly, I said, "I'll let you get on to bed. Thanks for calling."
"...So...uhhh...how is everyone?" was his response and a window was opened for an extremely chatty 30 minute conversation. (Mother of sons are not used to this.)
I'm slowly morphing into Mom- of -College -Person. I would talk to him every day if I could, not to instruct him on his life or to tell him what to do, but just because I miss his voice, his loud techno music, his messy room, his very smelly socks, and all his friends.
It takes a lot of discipline to be a mom in this new role. I'm learning to give him space, to keep my advice in check, and to become less instructor more cheerleader.
I'm in a unique situation with few of the "omg, my son's a college freshman" fears. (I'll save those for next fall when Stu is a freshman.) Clayton's school cares more about his grades than I do. They care more about his health and what he eats; he can't skip class -ever, and his room has to be spotlessly clean. (I'm still in awe that Clayton received the award for "Best Room in his Company". The last two months of his senior year, I had put a "CONDEMNED" sign on his door.)
Open window moments don't come frequently, and I want be wise enough to recognize them and discerning enough to not force it open myself.
I am pausing from my busy Thursday to paste this "Open Window Encounter" into my mental scrapbook.

The Cross-Eyed Trooper

Getting Stuart's driver's license was a three year quest. In hindsight, I know that I started him too soon, even though it's legal at 14. It began well when he passed Driver's Ed and the written test with ease. It was just the driving part that seemed to get in the way. Fact: Our Expedition is as appealing to a young driver as maneuvering an Abrams tank through the mall parking lot. (My first driver got his license at 16 but chose a year-long no-driving strike before conceding to the tank.)
For Stuart, the biggest obstacle was the Cross-Eyed Trooper - Arkansas Department of Motor Vehicles self-appointed Gate Keeper. He was fat, tall, and extremely mean. Stuart failed twice under his watch, once out of sheer nervousness. Hated by all, including his co-workers, he handed out failure slips with maniacal glee.
Our third effort to get the license proved successful. I stood in the waiting room praying and peeking. "Please, God, don't let Stuart get the Cross-Eyed Trooper, pleeeease."
Test-givers manned desks horizontally placed before the excessively long line of licensee-hopefuls. One-by-one they were called forward.
"Please, God, please," as Stuart inched his way to the front. "Let it be the smiling, jolly African American Trooper or the woman."
"No, God, no!" as Stuart was called to appear before the Cross-Eyed Trooper.
"Why, God, why?" as Stuart joined the smaller Road Test Group.
Then, I don't how, another Trooper appeared like an angel sent directly from Heaven, and Stuart was ushered out to his test and came back with a pass slip and we laughed and rejoiced and did high fives in line for his license photo and celebrated with a hamburger.
I have Cross-Eyed Troopers in my life...obstacles so scary that I become paralyzed. The Cross-Eyed Trooper means failure. He doesn't go away; he grows meaner and bigger the more I ignore him.

Operating Heavy Machinery

I like to be in control. For this reason even thinking about small, tight places causes my palms to sweat. The "tight space fear" is actually the result of a childhood hide-and-seek game when, while I was hiding in the laundry hamper, my brother sat on top and refused to let me out. Loss of control.
I'm not a fan of flying. I only do it because it takes me fun places; the result trumps the fear. But, I'd much rather have my feet on the ground.
I don't like prescription drugs. If I have a short-term affliction, I'll take something for that (usually has to be quite dire), and if I'm ever struck with a life-threatening disease, okay. But, long term drugs for regular stuff, no way. It represents to me a loss of control.
I especially don't like prescriptions whose bottles caution: May cause drowsiness. Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this drug.
Stuart challenged me on this one, "Mom, when have you ever operated heavy machinery?"
"Are you kidding?" was my appalled response, "A mom needs to be ready to operate heavy machinery at any given time!"
Any mother knows this fact is true. If my children need me, and I am called upon to do so, I need to always be ready to operate heavy machinery. I care not if I have ever done so in the past, this mother of three teenage boys is at all times on standby.

"For More Than Ourselves"

The search for matching comforters, wondering who will bring the 'fridge, the microwave, the X-Box. How will all my clothes fit in that closet? Will I get into the fraternity I want? The list goes on and on in a familiar chorus repeated by anxious college-bound freshmen year after year.
While friends were attending good-bye parties before everyone scatters, while moms were searching Target for dorm furnishing bargains, while class '08 mates were hitting the lake "one last time" and posting Facebook pics of all their adventures; my son was learning how to salute upperclassmen, eat his dinner with 5 chews per bite while keeping his eyes firmly focused on the plate's crest, was getting up at 5 am every day to the sound of a bugle. He was crawling under barbed-wire in the mud, sleeping without ac, going to his postbox wishing for letters in a generation that has no concept of stamps. He was looking forward to each of 3 ten minute phone calls. He was too tired at night, after countless push-ups, memorizing and reciting books worth of knowledge, running 5 miles, shooting guns, throwing grenades,enduring tear gas without a mask, to even dream of home...and all that he was missing...choosing a hard path and desiring to live "for more than ourselves".

"It" - The Ninety Second Good-Bye

Have you ever waited a long time for something bad to happen? The bad thing is not desired, yet relief occurs when the event has passed. Such was the infamous "90 Second Good-Bye".
When I first learned of "It" in all its horrific-ness, I cried every time my brain would bring it to remembrance. Throughout the "graduation season", there was a guaranteed cry-fest whenever I mentioned "It" to fellow moms (and dads) of seniors.
Life-altering events always arrive amidst a countdown. Reception Day (R-Day) at West Point was both life-altering and now upon us. The Eve had been spent triple-checking Clayton's duffel bag and eating steak.
Everyone in our hotel was delivering a son or daughter to West Point. There was an uncanny seriousness in the air. However, I was amused that night to view several future New Cadets, mine included, circling the hotel parking lot, cellphones pressed to their ears. Last calls to friends before dropping off civilization's radar for the 7 weeks of Cadet Basis Training (Beast Barracks) soon to come.
The morning "of It" came quickly and early. Soon we were in front of Ike Hall joining the "Long Anxious Line", enduring two hours of chatty stories about any body's West Point experience - complete with embellishments and urban legends. Clayton somberly inched his duffel bag forward, arms folded across his chest "Clayton-style", offering few words.
Groups of 40 soon-to-be New Cadets and their entourages of family were invited chunk-by-chunk into the auditorium for "It", accompanied by a short briefing.
"It" had been peeking its ugly head around the corner for months. I couldn't believe "It" was upon me.
Who can remember what the upfront person said or who-the-heck they were? "It" was coming: I bit the side of my cheek and tried to focus on not being a mom soon to give away her firstborn son.
The "It" lady appeared too soon at the microphone, "You now have 90 seconds to say 'good-bye' ".
Hugs, pats, kisses, tears, admonishments whispered in secret filled the room. In 30 seconds my Clayton, holding his carefully-checked bag, was in line for the transition from civilian to military, separated only by an auditorium door. Twelve hundred ninety two stepped forward that R-Day from comfort, affirmation, hometown hero-status into a new world. On the door's other side, superiors were immediately in their faces barking orders and initiating the longest day of their young lives.
"It" was over.
The door was shut on the past 19 years. The unexpectedness of life...who could have predicted that "It" would end the chapter.

No More Hieroglyphics

On Clayton's first full day of kindergarten I carefully packed the perfect lunch and placed it in his metal Godzilla lunch box. Tucked beneath his sandwich was, of course, a note from Mom. Trouble was, Clayton couldn't yet read so I wrote, "I love you" in hieroglyphics. Then, I drew a picture of me and him hugging one another. He stuffed it in his little pocket, reaching inside throughout the day to remember he was not alone.
This morning, I made Clayton's last school lunch. Tucked beside his sandwich, of course, was a note from Mom... and...just for old time's sake...I added hieroglyphics.
Last night at the Senior High Awards Night, an Army Colonel presented a recognition award to Clayton for his appointment to West Point. The entire crowd gave my son a standing ovation. Pretty awesome.
On my calendar I have a count-down until we say good-by...55 days. The last time I had a count-down of this significance was right before Davis was born, and 2 year old Stuart would announce daily how many more days there were " before the baby chums".
Notes will soon begin to take on significance once again, as Clayton spends the summer at West Point's basic training which is lovingly referred to as "Beast Barracks". During that period, notes will be our only communication...and Clayton has never been very good at writing...so... it's going to be pretty one-sided. Ironically, we are brought back full-circle to the hieroglyphics era and to a time when it will be important, once more, for him to know he is not alone.