At what price a tidy room and neatly made bed?

I look at my son’s bedroom in dismay. I’ve apparently failed to teach him the value of a neatly made bed and folded clothes. Stacks of paper – probably more of it unfinished homework than I care to think about – litter the floor. A typical teenager, he cleans when forced, grumbling under his breath as he works.

He hovers on the cusp of adulthood, tolerating high school until he can graduate and join the military. I wish he were a better student, wish he lived up to his academic potential, wish he’d think about college. However, he’s dreamed of joining the Marines since he was a child. We both see the day in sight when we sit down with recruiters.

As I look at the disorder in his bedroom, a tiny part of me waits impatiently for the day he enters the military and is forced to adapt to discipline. I’m certain he won’t roll his eyes and huff when his commanding officers give him orders. Instead, he’ll learn to make a bed on which he can bounce a quarter. His wild mane of hair will be clipped short. His clothes will be ironed into sharp creases. He’ll stand straight, look squared away, and answer “Sir” and “Ma’am” when spoken to.

Maybe he’ll learn a transferable job skill, or decide further schooling is in order. While he wants to join out of a sense of patriotism and desire for adventure, I can’t help but selfishly appreciate the mom-friendly side effects of discipline, responsibility, and formality.

As I sit with him at bedtime, many nights we talk about boot camp. He’s been watching YouTube videos to prepare for it, and considers himself somewhat of an expert, with the brash self-confidence that only a naïve teenager possesses. Yet he extracts promises from me to write to him while he’s away, and commits to overcoming his own writing aversion to answer my letters. He’s already planning on missing us, while simultaneously planning to fly far from the nest.

Friends ask my son, “What does your mom think of you joining the Marines?” I’m a vocal bleeding-heart peacenik hippie, quick to jump up on my saving-the-world soapbox. It’s not a stretch to think I might object.

He’s quick to answer, “She has mixed feelings. She says that if we must have a military, she prefers it be comprised of people like me.” This is the short answer, and he’s memorized it well. It puts people’s questions to rest, but the truth is more complicated.
Living in San Diego, a military town, it’s easy to see the positive effects. Family members, former students, acquaintances and friends have blossomed in the military. They mature. They travel the world to a degree I certainly can’t afford to provide. In addition, they acquire job skills, support families and have the option to further their educations. For a young person who doesn’t see college on his radar, it’s hard to find a better way to make a living.

And then I read the news. Iraq. Afghanistan. North Korea.
I scan the newspaper for countries in which we have a military presence, and places we may send troops. I read about Wounded Warriors overcoming traumatic brain injuries and loss of limbs. I hear interviews with soldiers haunted by the moral trauma of being ordered to take actions which are firmly against their values. I can’t help but imagine my son in one of these worst-case scenarios, wondering if he will be broken by the things he sees or does. I question whether he will be made into an entirely different type of man than the boy I have been aiming to raise all these years.

I love my country, but I don’t want my boy to bleed red, white, and blue.

I don’t want him to view the world as filled with potential enemies.

I don’t want him to go to war.

I remind myself of all of the amazing members of the military I have known, men and women of character who have stepped into my son’s life as role models. I recite the list of ways he’ll benefit from gaining the discipline and formality I have failed to instill in him. I sigh because in the blink of an eye, I will turn around and find that he’s become an adult, choosing his path whether I agree with it or not.

So I watch a few boot camp videos of my own, pester my military friends and relatives for advice, and pray we stay out of war for the foreseeable future. I stare at his messy room and unmade bed, and cross my fingers that the cost of straightening these things out won’t be too high.

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