Monday's Child

It was a lonely time. Husband was in Korea. The OB Doc said be at the hospital by noon. So I parked my car in the long-term section, and carried my little paper bag of clothes inside. As I checked myself in, I thought about what life might be like if I was married to someone who wasn't always off somewhere saving the world. Two injections later I went to sleep, thinking about my husband, wondering when he'd get to see his child. I woke hours later with someone holding my hand, and just for a minute dreamed that it was him, but opened my eyes to see a face I did not know, a military nurse, and heard her mantra, "You're OK, your son is fine. You're OK, your son is fine."

I had a son. But I'd been expecting a girl, and I had no name prepared. Within minutes they came from the nursery with him. I set Baby down on the bed, unwrapped the blanket, counted fingers and toes, eyebrows, nose. Yep, all there. I looked at him, thought of the old nursery rhyme, and told my new best friend that I thought this Monday’s child was not so very fair of face, but instead looked like a miniature Teddy Roosevelt, with his rough-rider expression.

Lt. Sugden laughed, said "Well, considering what his father does for a living, that's not far off." We smiled at each other. And then she went away to do other nurse-ly things.

I named him Brady Theodore. Not after anyone in the family, but because I decided he needed a name all his own. If there was to be a nickname in his future at least it wouldn't be 'junior' or worse, 'trip.' His dad came home two months later, held his son, and pronounced him “The Bear.”

The solitary delivery pretty much just continued the tone already set for the marriage. There was always some country or some person who needed him and his time more than we. Even when hubby was home he wasn't present, he was either coming down off the last assignment or putting on his game face and gearing up for the next one. I lost my cool so many times, focusing on what we did not have rather than what we did. T-Bear did not have that problem. When the door opened and his Daddy walked in, the world held room for only two. There was not much in the way of quantity, but it was definitely quality time when it came to Daddy and his son.

In the next five years Daddy was home for the holidays only twice. Each Christmas, T-Bear and I decorated the tree. When he was old enough, I'd hand him the little unbreakable ones and he'd hang them on the lower branches. Each Christmas Eve we’d pile up cushions and blankets and drowse by the tree, waiting, praying, hoping the front door would open. I taught T-Bear to sing Silent Night.

Last year, we stood in the cold November rain and were handed a flag and heard the pro forma empty words of a Nation’s grateful thanks. I hugged my son and tried not to cry. It didn't work.

Mom invited us to her house for Christmas. We drove down the night before, and stayed just two days. I was tired, and more short-tempered than normal. But Brady loved it. (We no longer called him T-Bear, for he had announced a few weeks earlier that at six he was a big boy and wanted a big boy name.) And I was grateful for not spending yet another Holiday alone.

Mom had a little plastic Nativity scene on her coffee table. About six inches high, with star and angel permanently attached to the stable roof. There was a little plastic Mary to sit by the manger that held a tiny baby with arms outstretched, a Joseph to stand in the background, three kings to kneel at the front in adoration, one cow, one donkey, two bales of fake hay, and three plastic palm trees. Brady spent hours arranging the little people, marching the cow and donkey round and round, humming a Christmas carol only he knew. Mom packed it up and sent it home with us.

Back at home, Brady stayed mostly in his room, playing with games that moved and had sound effects. I packed two more boxes, and placed them in the slowly growing pile by the door, along with the box of Christmas decorations. Housing only gives you so much time to clear out after you become ex-military, no matter the circumstances of how you become an ex, and we had only one more month to live there. It was chicken fingers and french fries for dinner. Again. But it was quick, and what Brady liked, and one of the few things he would eat without pressure from me.

We moved to this house, near family, and I found a job. But there's no military base within easy driving distance. I miss my friends. And the commissary.

Last week I took the box of decorations down from the attic. It won't be our first Christmas without him, but this year it's different, you know? This year there's no chance he'll walk through the door to surprise us.

After we trimmed the tree, we set the little Nativity scene on the floor underneath. Brady played with it for a little while, then went on about his business. Sometimes I think he spends too much time in his room, alone, but our counselor says to give him time, he’ll find his own way.

Yesterday I glanced at the Nativity scene and noticed the statue of Joseph was missing. I checked the floors, and all around, but it was not there.

When I put him to bed last night, I said, "Hey, Brae, do you know what happened to the little Joseph?"

"Oh, yeah" he answered, pulled it out from under his pillow and handed it to me. "But it's OK, Mom,” he said, rubbing sleepy eyes, “Jesus said since I don't have a Daddy I could borrow his."

I kissed him, handed him back the statue, tucked the comforter around his neck, and went out of the room. It was not the first night I cried myself to sleep, nor will it be the last, I’m sure. But life is what it is. And we will go on.

So on this day I celebrate all the men who give a father's love to children not their own, and my Monday's child, who learned the hard way to appreciate life, and how to never take for granted time spent with those we love.