Breaking Ice & Making Nice

Through the Rain

Friends, I have another confession to make: I love Barry Manilow.

No, that's not exactly true. I don't love Barry Manilow. I LOVE BARRY MANILOW. As in, my heart melts into an ooey-gooey puddle on the floor when a familiar song plays on the radio.

As in, I've been able to sing most every Manilow tune by heart since I was in the single digits.

As in, I am a true-blue, dyed-in-the-wool Fanilow. And I am not ashamed.

(Okay, maybe I am a teensy bit embarrassed to reveal this little-known passion. But I digress.)

Last night, the boys and I enjoyed a celebratory, "Only-48-Hours-'til-Daddy's-Home" dinner at Applebee's. When we walked into the restaurant, it was a lovely clear night in Seattle.

When we walked out of the restaurant, it was a veritable monsoon worthy of the South Pacific. We were only halfway through the parking lot by the time we were drenched from head to toe in cold, soak-right-through-your-jeans rain.

That's when they hit me... the lyrics to a favorite Manilow ditty:

I made it through the rain,
I kept my world protected.
I made it through the rain,
I kept my point of view.
I made it through the rain,
And found myself respected,
By the others who
Got rained on, too,
And made it through.

Of course, we made it through the rain to our car. Then we made it home, where we gratefully changed into warm and cozy pajamas and curled up together in my room to watch a family TV program before bedtime.

And today, with less than 24 hours to go before the CDR's return to the pier, I think I can safely say that we made it through seven months of deployment.

We made it through the rain.

That legendary songwriter, my beloved Barry, was right on the money when he said he "found [him]self respected by the others who got rained on, too." This year, I have been the eternally grateful benefeciary of endless emails, numerous phone calls, and several care packages from friends all over the country.

Every one of you helped me to make it through the rain, because you've been soaked a time or two before yourself. And you know how good it feels when someone reaches their hand across the miles or the grocery store aisle and says, "Here, let me help."

Thank you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The (Little) Man in My Life

When Mo was born, he came into the world with the same head of hair as his daddy - that is to say, he was completely bald.

And he didn't really start growing hair until he turned two years old. We even joked about costuming the CDR as Dr. Evil and Mo as Mini-Me for Halloween. My husband and son were identical, but for the fact that one was 34 years younger and several pant sizes smaller.

Fast forward three years. I'm walking into church this morning with Mo holding my left hand, and my younger son Kel holding my right. As we approach the steps, I can practically feel my husband's presence, as though he were walking right there beside me.

Then I realize that my memory has a definitive flash-point. As he nervously clutches my hand in that crowded room, Mo is fiddling with my wedding ring in exactly the same manner that his father does when he reaches for my left hand.

This has happened before. Mo recently became afraid of the dark, and he is convinced that the "bad guys" are going to come into our house at night and hurt us.

Thank you ever so much, parents of the other preschooler at daycare who let their child see The Dark Night in the movie theatre and whose child has now taught my son all about how bad guys beat the good guys into a bloody pulp. I'm not one to judge other parental methodologies, but seriously. Are you nuts?

Anyway, back to my story. Because Mo is so frightened at night, he often asks me to snuggle in bed with him before he falls asleep. Judge me if you like, but I often indulge this desperate request. As I climb into his twin bed and lay beside him, Mo always flips onto his back and stretches his arm across the pillow so that I can rest in the crook of his little shoulder, then strokes my hair as he whispers himself into peaceful sleep...

This is exactly the way that his father snuggles me in the sweet, soft darkness of our bedroom at night.

It may sound a little creepy, I know. But I actually find it inspiring. My good friend Nell once told me that she was proud to have little boys, if only so she could raise them to become smart, strong, and loving men like her amazing husband. The world needs more men like him, she said.

I totally agree. The world needs more men like my husband, too. And if these instinctive - and apparently genetic - habits of Mo's are any indication, I suspect I'm on the right track in raising my son to be just like his daddy.