Damn Television

I had a bunch of things I was thinking about blogging today. Some of them cute, some of them ironic, and one that was just plain gruesome. But none of them sweet. Brent's slipping into a sugar comma and even I feel some cavities coming on.

But it's all flittered away from my brain like so much fluff.

My husband came home for lunch today just as I was getting my son ready for his nap. So they snuggled up in the rocker together, my man in uniform and my little guy, and read a story. I took the opportunity to sneak downstairs and channel surf.

And I'm an idiot. There happened to be a show on about my husband's aircraft. I actually own it on video tape but I haven't watched it yet. I figured I'd tune into the last ten minutes or so, and see if I could spot my husband or any of his friends.

What I ended up watching was the story of a certain mission that, while successful, ended with many casualties and crew members taken as POWs. One pilot was telling his story, interspersed with historical footage of the POWs and reenactments by current military members.

They were wearing my husband's uniform. They were flying my husband's aircraft. And they were huddled in tiny cages with a bucket to defecate in, with their fingers in their ears to drown out the sounds of the bombs raining down around them.

And I cried.

I'm such an idiot. Change the channel, dumbass! But I couldn't help but watch.

I watched these men suffer, while I listened to my husband read my son Thomas the Tank Engine and sing his bedtime song.

The show finished with the story of our shock and awe campaign in Iraq. So many dead. So much suffering. But none of it ours. And that is all I care about.

All I care is that my husband will be coming back to read a bedtime story and sing his bedtime song. And I don't feel sorry about it. I can't. I won't. I refuse to.

I just can't think about it anymore.