Surrender, Dorothy:

I almost hate to mess up the groove of my lovely princess post - if you're not into politics, feel free to skip this and go on down to see photos of the little angel wearing a tutu. She's much cuter than what I'm about to say.

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But I just got this forward, and it made me mad. The forward is at the bottom, and above is my response. I think it's our duty to avoid lumping the mutually exclusive support of individual soldiers and their well-being, families and health with support for our country's leadership.

Ahem. I present the e-mail that will get me kicked out of the family.

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With all due respect to my second cousin and my brother-in-law and every other member of the military, I think there's a big difference between supporting the men and women in uniform and supporting our president.

No one should criticize the armed forces for doing what they signed up to do - I agree that we must defend our country, and every citizen should be eternally grateful that we have a voluntary military to do that. We don't have a draft. We don't have mandatory military service for men and women, as some countries do.

The soldiers aren't paid enough. They aren't treated well enough upon their return. My best friend is a psychologist who works with veterans, and I know war leaves horrendous scars on our soldiers' psyches. By nature, soldiers must be trained to go against everything they know to be right in certain situations in order to win wars. I can't imagine how hard it must be to reconcile war with Christianity. I do not judge the soldiers, but I can't imagine having to do it. I'm grateful to them that I don't have to do it. This fundamental schizm in belief systems - the ten commandments versus the need to protect our freedom - has been something I've struggled with intellectually since I was old enough to realize what happens in times of war. I'm not talking about babykilling, like the women in the story, but just war. War is so ugly, whether you see it in hand-to-hand combat or deal with it from afar via technology. The soldiers are the ones who have to carry out the orders, but we are all to blame for creating global inequity with our spending habits and our waste. Inequity breeds war.

I feel the same way about the soldiers that I do about teachers and daycare workers - they are the most important people to maintaining our way of life, and we treat them like hell, and it's wrong.

That said, I don't agree with us being in Iraq. I see other countries with brutal dictators that we are not invading. I see genocide. I see female genital mutilation. I see messes remaining everywhere from Vietnam to Afghanistan. I see a third generation of napalm babies being born without limbs. I see a real threat coming from North Korea. I see New Orleans still needing our domestic attention. I never thought we should've gone into Iraq. I cried the day Bush was elected the first time, the day he was elected the second time, and I was furious to the point of almost vomiting the day we invaded Iraq. I am genuinely afraid of our position in the world and how our actions are alienating us from other world leaders. But that doesn't mean that I don't realize that soldiers are paid to do what they are paid to do, and if we have issues with a war, we have issues with the top echelons of command, not with those who are risking their lives to do their jobs. They have a fire they have to fight, and they are fighting it to the best of their ability until their leaders tell them to stop.

I really don't think protesting a war has any relationship to protesting the soldiers fighting it, and it depresses me that conservatives seem to think that if you oppose the war, you hate the military. It depresses me in the way that half the country seems to think you can't be a Christian tree-hugging liberal. These stereotypes limit our thinking and suppress important conversations. It is a free country, and we should be free to disagree. The women in this story were wrong to lump their criticisms of the president and the politics behind the war in Iraq with the integrity of the armed forces, but the narrator of this story was equally wrong to lump support for Bush with support for the armed forces. They are not one and the same. You can love your military relatives and hate the war. Life is more complex than this story implies. There is a lot of gray space when thinking about who deserves to live and who doesn't, and whose decision it is to determine that.

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Subject: in defence of Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, National Guard in the Iraq

Subject: A Memorable Steak Dinner

I was sitting alone in one of those loud, casual steak houses that you find
all over the country. You know the type--a bucket of peanuts on every table,
shells littering the floor, and a bunch of perky college kids racing around with
longneck beers and sizzling platters.

Taking a sip of my iced tea, I studied the crowd over the rim of my glass. My
gaze lingered on a group enjoying their meal. They wore no uniform to
identify their branch of service, but they were definitely "military:" clean shaven,
cropped haircut, and that "squared away" look that comes with pride. Smiling
sadly, I glanced across my table to the empty seat where my husband usually
sat. It had only been a few months since we sat in this very booth, talking about
his upcoming deployment to the Middle East.

That was when he made me promise to get a sitter for the kids, come back to
this restaurant once a month and treat myself to a nice steak. In turn he would
treasure the thought of me being here, thinking about him until he returned
home. I fingered the little flag pin I constantly wear and wondered where he
was at this very moment. Was he safe and warm? Was his cold any better? Were my
letters getting through to him? As I pondered these thoughts, high pitched
female voices from the next booth broke into my thoughts.

"I don't know what Bush is thinking about. Invading Iraq. You'd think that
man would learn from his old man's mistakes. Good lord. What an idiot! I can't
believe he is even in office. You do know, he stole the election."

I cut into my steak and tried to ignore them, as they began an endless tirade
running down our president. I thought about the last night I spent with my
husband, as he prepared to deploy. He had just returned from getting his
smallpox and anthrax shots. The image of him standing in our kitchen packing his gas
mask still gives me chills.

Once again the women's voices invaded my thoughts. "It is all about oil, you
know. Our soldiers will go in and rape and steal all the oil they can in the
name of 'freedom'. Hmph! I wonder how many innocent people they'll kill without
giving it a thought? It's pure greed, you know."

My chest tightened as I stared at my wedding ring. I could still see how
handsome my husband looked in his "mess dress" the day he slipped it on my finger.
I wondered what he was wearing now. Probably his desert uniform,
affectionately dubbed "coffee stains" with a heavy bulletproof vest over it.

"You know, we should just leave Iraq alone. I don't think they are hiding any
weapons. In fact, I bet it's all a big act just to increase the president's
popularity. That's all it is, padding the military budget at the expense of our
social security and education. And, you know what else? We're just asking for
another 9-11. I can't say when it happens again that we didn't deserve it."
Their words brought to mind the war protesters I had watched gathering outside
our base. Did no one appreciate the sacrifice of brave men and women, who
leave their homes and family to ensure our freedom? Do they even know what
"freedom" is?

I glanced at the table where the young men were sitting, and saw their
courageous faces change. They had stopped eating and looked at each other
dejectedly, listening to the women talking. "Well, I, for one, think it's just
deplorable to invade Iraq, and I am certainly sick ofour tax dollars going to train
professional baby-killers we call a military."

Professional baby-killers? I thought about what a wonderful father my husband
is, and of how long it would be before he would see our children again.

That's it! Indignation rose up inside me. Normally reserved, pride in my
husband gave me a brassy boldness I never realized I had. Tonight one voice will
answer on behalf of our military, and let her pride in our troops be known.

Sliding out of my booth, I walked around to the adjoining booth and placed my
hands flat on their table. Lowering myself to eye level with them, smilingly
said, "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. You see, I'm sitting
here trying to enjoy my dinner alone. And, do you know why? Because my husband,
whom I love with all my heart, is halfway around the world defending your right
to say rotten things about him." "Yes, you have the right to your opinion,
and what you think is none of my business. However, what you say in public is
something else, and I will not sit by and listen to you ridicule MY country, MY
president, My husband, and all the other fine American men and women who put
their lives on the line, just so you can have the "freedom" to complain.
Freedom is an expensive commodity, ladies. Don't let your actions cheapen it."

I must have been louder that I meant to be, because the manager came over to
inquire if everything was all right. "Yes, thank you," I replied. Then,
turning back to the women, I said, "Enjoy the rest of your meal."

As I returned to my booth applause broke out. I was embarrassed for making a
scene, and went back to my half eaten steak. The women picked up their check
and scurried away.

After finishing my meal, and while waiting for my check, the manager returned
with a huge apple cobbler ala mode. "Compliments of those soldiers," he said.
He also smiled and said the ladies tried to pay for my dinner, but that
another couple had beaten them to it. When I asked who, the manager said they had
already left, but that the gentleman was a veteran, and wanted to take care of
the wife of "one of our boys."

With a lump in my throat, I gratefully turned to the soldiers and thanked
them for the cobbler. Grinning from ear to ear, they came over and surrounded the
booth. "We just wanted to thank you, ma'am. You know we can't get into
confrontations with civilians, so we appreciate what you did."

As I drove home, for the first time since my husband's deployment, I didn't
feel quite so alone. My heart was filled with the warmth of the other diners
who stopped by my table, to relate how they, too, were proud of my husband, and
would keep him in their prayers. I knew their flags would fly a little higher
the next day. Perhaps they would look for more tangible ways to show their
pride in our country, and the military who protect her. And maybe, just maybe,
the two women who were railing against our country, would pause for a minute to
appreciate all the freedom America offers, and the price it pays to maintain
it's freedom.

As for me, I have learned that one voice CAN make a difference. Maybe the
next time protesters gather outside the gates of the base where I live, I will
proudly stand on the opposite side with a sign of my own. It will simply say,
"Thank You!" To those who fought for our Nation: Freedom has a flavor the
protected will never know.

GOD BLESS AMERICA! Please pray for God's protection of our troops and HIS
wisdom for their commanders. Pass this on to as many as you think will respond.

"Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands. Protect them as they protect us.
Bless them and their families for the selfless acts they perform for us in
our time of need. I ask this in the name of God."

When you receive this, please stop for a moment and say a prayer for our
ground, air and navy personnel in every area of the middle east. There is nothing
attached.... This can be very powerful.... just send this to all the people in
your address book.

Do not stop this prayer chain, please! Of all the gifts you could give to
anyone in the US Military, be it Air Force, Army, Navy, Marines or National
Guard, Prayer is the very best one.....Amen!

Last night, as I tucked the little angel in, I smelled her head extra long. Oh, I thought, she is the world's most perfect little angel.

And thus, I cursed myself.

The little angel woke up at 3:30 a.m. wanting milk. I always set my alarm clock like thirty minutes fast, and I'm sort of blind, so somehow, I thought it was 5:30 and took her downstairs to give her some milk. Downstairs, I realized the error of my ways, but it was already too late.

I laid down with her on the couch, hoping she would just go to sleep. Just as I could feel my toes dipping into the deep, green pools of dreamland, I felt a chubby finger poking me in the temple.

Little Angel: "I want more milk."

GAH.

Me: "Will you go to sleep?"

Little Angel: "Yes."

I am a sucker.

I got her more milk. Some length of time passed. Again, I approached dreamland, thinking YES! This time I will make it.

Poke, poke, poke. "I want more milk."

I opened my eyes. It was now 5:30, the time I thought it was originally. I was sort of pissed.

Me: "No, you can't have any more milk. You've had two cups of milk, and you know you are not supposed to drink milk in the middle of the night. No, go to sleepy!" (Because all parental anger is defused by the use of the word "sleepy.")

Little Angel: (arching back and screaming two centimeters from my ear) "I want MILK! I WANT MILK! NOW!!!"

Me: "If you can't stop crying by the time I count to ten, you're going back in your room all alone, no milk, no mommy, no NOTHING."

Of course she didn't stop.

Barely hinged, I carried her upstairs, unceremoniously dumped her on her bed, shut her door and threw myself dramatically on my own bed. I could hear her wailing and throwing her tiny body against the hardwood door with the child-safety knob. "I want to go ba-ack doooowwwwnnnstaaaairs, Mommy! Mommy!"

Enough to make your heart break, right? Not this cold-hearted bitch. Not last night, anyway. I had HAD IT WITH THE NOT SLEEPING.

After about ten minutes of THAT, I poked my beloved in the temple with my chubby finger. He got up and went to get her.

This morning, as we were brushing our teeth and she was happily chowing yogurt raisins, my beloved and I reflected on the night before.

Me: "Do you think it would be horrible to leave her out for the squirrels?"

Beloved: "If Sybil pees outside her box one more time, I'm going to make her into a hat."

(Sybil chose this moment to stroll grandly into the bathroom.)

Me: "I mean, they could survive, right? Together? The little angel could give Sybil her thyroid pills on her own? And Sybil could teach the angel to climb trees?"