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Abstract

p>They were aged 18 to 22 and from the Southern states. Tiny rural towns, “You wouldn’t have heard of it, Ma’am.” Only Mac was familiar with the beaches and cities of the liberal Northeast or overseas travel that required a passport.Some in the group had enlisted to get away from a bad situation. Others had joined up for a chance at the brass ring, such as the gentlemanly Mexican who wanted “papers for his mom so she could travel.” After active duty, he planned to work in the oil fields and save up to buy a farm.“Oh, you gonna get a donkey and drink Modelo,” crowed a skinny Texan, the chattiest of the bunch, “that’s what all you Mexicans do.” He wore snakeskin cowboy boots and a trucker hat and cheerfully described himself as white trash.“Sorry ‘bout the casual racism, Ma’am,” drawled the college dropout, a Philosophy major looking to see the world. “Yeah, he’s dumb, but we still love him,” chuckled a former high school football star who was African-American. At the Texas Roadhouse Grill, he would eat the cowboy kid’s lunch; he grew up with five brothers and had learned to eat first and talk later.Lunch was a blast. They told me (mostly) respectable versions of their exploits together. Casually tossing around stories of disasters and injuries that had mostly, though not always, been averted. They were comfortable and generous with each other, and the teasing never stopped.I was surprised when none of them knew Mac’s first name. They had introduced themselves to me using their given names, but apparently, those belonged to a different world. With their Marine family, they only ever used last names.When I asked when they last saw their moms, the table grew quiet. We said our farewells and, as the third of them sidled up for a mom hug, I realized how very far from home these boys felt.They posed for a picture and promised I would share it with MoM, a group where such proof-of-life photos are treasured.<h2 id="21b3">The Secret Sisterhood</h2>I was invited to join MoM (Mothers of Marines) when Mac enlisted. I have met some mamma bears in my time but this group is next level. I admit I felt a little above it all at first — no way was I getting a tattoo with the Stars and Stripes and a sentiment about how ‘others search for a hero but I raised mine’. I wouldn’t even wear it on a T-shirt, but the warmth and sincerity of the MoMs quickly won me over.Logic and reason aren’t much help when navigating the sprawling military bureaucracy. Plans change often, and there is a lot of hurry up and wait. While the USMC motto is Semper Fidelis, always faithful, the MoMs go by Semper Gumby, always flexible.MoM operates as an intel-sharing service and hive mind. Need to know the wait times at your son’s or daughter’s next training facility and the chances of them getting leave? Ask the MoMs. Same if you want a birthday cake delivered in Hawaii, or your kid is stranded and needs a ride, a bed, or anything else you would provide yourself if you were within range. There will be a MoM somewhere nearby who will be delighted to swoop in and help out.When a MoM reports boots in the house (Marine home on leave), a collective cheer goes up. When it’s time for the See ya later, we all commiserate that it never gets easier.Some news can’t be posted elsewhere because of security concerns but most of the pride and heartbreak shared in the group is because “no one else would get it”.<h2 id="2dfd">What Keeps Us Up At Night</h2>As MoMs, we worry about our newly adulting kids for the same reasons as any other parent. The service doesn’t make them immune to road accidents, mental health crises, or the kind of unsuspected medical condition that felled a robust 20-year-old in the chow hall.But other industry-specific dangers are harder to tal

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k about, if only because they are so far removed from civilian experience.Listen to my kids on FaceTime, and they could be on an Outward Bound course, hiking, swimming, or rappelling at a high ropes course. Except for the day when work finished early because a trainee mishandled a live grenade. The instructor had body-rushed him and landed in the hospital, his back peppered with shrapnel. Another young Marine Mac had trained with was killed by a freak ricochet.The weapons are real. Accidents happen, and the consequences are devastatingly real.When a helicopter crashed off the coast of Japan a couple of weeks before Christmas, it barely caused a ripple in the news cycle. But for ten families who received a folded flag, life will never be the same again.This is the wellspring of the intensity that runs through my life as a parent.I don’t wear a Proud Mom T-shirt or fill my workspace with patriotic memorabilia, but I understand when military parents do. I am finally someone who ‘gets it.’<h2 id="4518">When Newly Adult Kids Come Home</h2>Few parents become empty-nesters overnight. When vacations and holidays roll around, the kids return, bringing a heady mix of new tastes and old habits.For years, I have watched friends with college kids cycle through the emotions of having them home. The initial excitement, growing disenchantment as more time is spent out with friends than at home with family. Irritation as house rules are thrown out and contraband is left in mom’s car. There is extra traffic (and mess) in the bathroom, and frustrated siblings demand, “It’s not fair — why does he get to […]?”Fledglings are awkward creatures. There are stumbles as their wing feathers develop, the stiff new pinions poking holes in family dynamics.When your fledglings are in the military, living in the tension between pride and fear multiplies the challenges. If parents are divorced, in whose home will your Marine spend most of their precious leave, and how is that decision made? With all the attention focused on the military visitor, siblings may feel jealous and left out.Rivalries and resentments are intensified because the stakes just feel so high — even without the pressure of the holidays to create picture-perfect family moments.The reality of not knowing when your child’s next visit will be or what might happen in the meantime hangs in the air like a virus. My friends make half-jokes wishing their kids out of the house, but for me, it feels like tempting fate.<h2 id="e697">Making The Best Of It</h2>I live by the rules of Semper Gumby, on permanent stand-by for boots in the house, be it my house or an AirBnB wherever my sons are stationed.Nothing beats having your children home, measuring their growth as they sprawl on the sofa with bellies full of their favorite dinner. It isn’t all a walk on the beach; there are funny stories, wrestling matches, and surprises in the laundry. Games are played, and old movies watched late into the night.And then, the best gift of all — the blessed sleep that only comes when you know your kids are home safe under your roof.<figure id="4e18"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*1_zT8MeBb8z3WfGSUnD0xQ.jpeg"><figcaption>Boots in the House — Photo by the author</figcaption></figure><a href="undefined">Beth Riungu</a> is a <a href="https://readmedium.com/my-biracial-identity-is-not-a-duplex-with-connecting-doors-7dd7bfb1751d">Scottish-Kenyan</a> transplanted to the U.S. but often found in Denmark because it’s so hygge. She writes about the meaning of life — especially the end of it. Her battle cry is Let’s do dying better and, to that end (ahem), posts resources on her website, <a href="https://www.morternity.com">Morternity</a> which is a word she totally made up.</article></body>

Parenting Newly Fledged Adults Is Tough Enough — Mine Are Military

Luckily, a secret sisterhood provides support and lessons on surviving my not-quite-empty nest.

Visits home can be a juggling act — Photo by the Author

I recognized early on that it was going to be different when my kids took their first steps away from home.

They graduated high school within a year of each other with no thoughts of college, both hell-bent on enlisting in the U.S. Marine Corps (USMC). So, while the parent friends I made over years of playdates, birthday parties, and school events were doing campus visits and applying for Pell grants, I was searching for information on how to become a military mom.

I expected my sons’ experiences to be similar to those of their friends heading off to college. Sure, the dorms were less comfortable than state prison, and with just 30 days of leave per year, they wouldn’t be home much. And there was military culture to consider. A college guidance counselor might be okay with a student taking a mental health day to zone out with donuts and Netflix, but the Staff Sergeant, not so much.

Still, my kids would stretch their wings in a structured environment, learn about personal responsibility, and share adventures with a frat houseful of peers. Isn’t that the essence of college life?

Entering New Territory

My sons’ freshman days brought the same tales of woe my college parent friends heard. Complaints about the food and how the system /expectations were inherently unfair. Intimations of homesickness from mild and general to intense and specific. Also, similar good news; blossoming friendships, new interests, and the joy of acquiring knowledge and skills.

When my younger son turned 19, he had been with the Corps for a few months and was feeling a little melancholy. He had a 96 (4-day weekend) coming up, so I planned a visit. As a student trainee, Mac wasn’t allowed to spend the night off-base, but I would see the ‘campus,’ meet some of his friends, and feed him treats — it would be like a college Family Weekend.

Training had taken Mac to South Carolina, then North Carolina, and now, California. I flew cross-country, reflecting on how far he’d come, literally and figuratively, and drove up the coastal highway towards Camp Pendleton.

Mac was waiting at security wearing his high school class T-shirt. It seemed to have shrunk. It wasn’t that he was taller, though he carried more muscle. It was that he inhabited his space differently somehow; there was more of him.

I wrapped my arms around him, and he softened into my gentle smiling boy, as familiar as the feel of the sun on my face.

Campus visits aren’t a thing at military bases, but I drove around with Mac pointing out landmarks and telling me about his training.

Camp Pendleton is vast and beautiful, with pristine nature untrampled by the general public. Mac told me about 20 km hikes carrying a pack that weighed almost as much as he did, about MREs (meals ready to eat), and of overnights spent under a tarp. It was surreal to think of my child lying in the desert hills, admiring the starry sky with an M16 tucked under his arm.

We went to the MCX, the USMC version of Walmart, where the Mac and his buddies stock up on snacks, buy new or replacement gear, and get their weekly haircuts. While there, we picked up some of the buddies to drive into town for lunch.

Making New Friends

Before my kids learned to drive, being the Mom Taxi gave me unexpected glimpses of their friendships. Driving these young men did not disappoint.

They were aged 18 to 22 and from the Southern states. Tiny rural towns, “You wouldn’t have heard of it, Ma’am.” Only Mac was familiar with the beaches and cities of the liberal Northeast or overseas travel that required a passport.

Some in the group had enlisted to get away from a bad situation. Others had joined up for a chance at the brass ring, such as the gentlemanly Mexican who wanted “papers for his mom so she could travel.” After active duty, he planned to work in the oil fields and save up to buy a farm.

“Oh, you gonna get a donkey and drink Modelo,” crowed a skinny Texan, the chattiest of the bunch, “that’s what all you Mexicans do.” He wore snakeskin cowboy boots and a trucker hat and cheerfully described himself as white trash.

“Sorry ‘bout the casual racism, Ma’am,” drawled the college dropout, a Philosophy major looking to see the world. “Yeah, he’s dumb, but we still love him,” chuckled a former high school football star who was African-American. At the Texas Roadhouse Grill, he would eat the cowboy kid’s lunch; he grew up with five brothers and had learned to eat first and talk later.

Lunch was a blast. They told me (mostly) respectable versions of their exploits together. Casually tossing around stories of disasters and injuries that had mostly, though not always, been averted. They were comfortable and generous with each other, and the teasing never stopped.

I was surprised when none of them knew Mac’s first name. They had introduced themselves to me using their given names, but apparently, those belonged to a different world. With their Marine family, they only ever used last names.

When I asked when they last saw their moms, the table grew quiet. We said our farewells and, as the third of them sidled up for a mom hug, I realized how very far from home these boys felt.

They posed for a picture and promised I would share it with MoM, a group where such proof-of-life photos are treasured.

The Secret Sisterhood

I was invited to join MoM (Mothers of Marines) when Mac enlisted. I have met some mamma bears in my time but this group is next level. I admit I felt a little above it all at first — no way was I getting a tattoo with the Stars and Stripes and a sentiment about how ‘others search for a hero but I raised mine’. I wouldn’t even wear it on a T-shirt, but the warmth and sincerity of the MoMs quickly won me over.

Logic and reason aren’t much help when navigating the sprawling military bureaucracy. Plans change often, and there is a lot of hurry up and wait. While the USMC motto is Semper Fidelis, always faithful, the MoMs go by Semper Gumby, always flexible.

MoM operates as an intel-sharing service and hive mind. Need to know the wait times at your son’s or daughter’s next training facility and the chances of them getting leave? Ask the MoMs. Same if you want a birthday cake delivered in Hawaii, or your kid is stranded and needs a ride, a bed, or anything else you would provide yourself if you were within range. There will be a MoM somewhere nearby who will be delighted to swoop in and help out.

When a MoM reports boots in the house (Marine home on leave), a collective cheer goes up. When it’s time for the See ya later, we all commiserate that it never gets easier.

Some news can’t be posted elsewhere because of security concerns but most of the pride and heartbreak shared in the group is because “no one else would get it”.

What Keeps Us Up At Night

As MoMs, we worry about our newly adulting kids for the same reasons as any other parent. The service doesn’t make them immune to road accidents, mental health crises, or the kind of unsuspected medical condition that felled a robust 20-year-old in the chow hall.

But other industry-specific dangers are harder to talk about, if only because they are so far removed from civilian experience.

Listen to my kids on FaceTime, and they could be on an Outward Bound course, hiking, swimming, or rappelling at a high ropes course. Except for the day when work finished early because a trainee mishandled a live grenade. The instructor had body-rushed him and landed in the hospital, his back peppered with shrapnel. Another young Marine Mac had trained with was killed by a freak ricochet.

The weapons are real. Accidents happen, and the consequences are devastatingly real.

When a helicopter crashed off the coast of Japan a couple of weeks before Christmas, it barely caused a ripple in the news cycle. But for ten families who received a folded flag, life will never be the same again.

This is the wellspring of the intensity that runs through my life as a parent.

I don’t wear a Proud Mom T-shirt or fill my workspace with patriotic memorabilia, but I understand when military parents do. I am finally someone who ‘gets it.’

When Newly Adult Kids Come Home

Few parents become empty-nesters overnight. When vacations and holidays roll around, the kids return, bringing a heady mix of new tastes and old habits.

For years, I have watched friends with college kids cycle through the emotions of having them home. The initial excitement, growing disenchantment as more time is spent out with friends than at home with family. Irritation as house rules are thrown out and contraband is left in mom’s car. There is extra traffic (and mess) in the bathroom, and frustrated siblings demand, “It’s not fair — why does he get to […]?”

Fledglings are awkward creatures. There are stumbles as their wing feathers develop, the stiff new pinions poking holes in family dynamics.

When your fledglings are in the military, living in the tension between pride and fear multiplies the challenges. If parents are divorced, in whose home will your Marine spend most of their precious leave, and how is that decision made? With all the attention focused on the military visitor, siblings may feel jealous and left out.

Rivalries and resentments are intensified because the stakes just feel so high — even without the pressure of the holidays to create picture-perfect family moments.

The reality of not knowing when your child’s next visit will be or what might happen in the meantime hangs in the air like a virus. My friends make half-jokes wishing their kids out of the house, but for me, it feels like tempting fate.

Making The Best Of It

I live by the rules of Semper Gumby, on permanent stand-by for boots in the house, be it my house or an AirBnB wherever my sons are stationed.

Nothing beats having your children home, measuring their growth as they sprawl on the sofa with bellies full of their favorite dinner. It isn’t all a walk on the beach; there are funny stories, wrestling matches, and surprises in the laundry. Games are played, and old movies watched late into the night.

And then, the best gift of all — the blessed sleep that only comes when you know your kids are home safe under your roof.

Boots in the House — Photo by the author

Beth Riungu is a Scottish-Kenyan transplanted to the U.S. but often found in Denmark because it’s so hygge. She writes about the meaning of life — especially the end of it. Her battle cry is Let’s do dying better and, to that end (ahem), posts resources on her website, Morternity which is a word she totally made up.