The headline read, “Hotel Blast in Baghdad Kills Two.”

I felt compelled to click on the “raw video” icon and it wasn’t due to some morbid sense of curiosity.  I saw the quick flash of a face…a face of a soldier who looked a hell of a lot like my brother.   In my mind I knew that he was fine and that his unit was deployed far from any fighting, but my heart raced as I continued to scroll through the story and flash over the streets littered with chunks of the damaged hotel.

I covered the computer screen when I heard a voice behind me.

“Wow.  Are those soldiers?  Like Uncle Bud?”

My son (5 years old at the time) adores his uncle and is passionate on the subject of military life.  He brings home library books on The Revolutionary War and has a collection of figures wherein medieval warriors battle cowboys and Indians.   He believes that George Washington should still be the President of the United States and listened intently to the tour guide at his home in Mount Vernon, VA.  I couldn’t help but smile as he drew a few glances from the rest of the adults in his attempts to correct her, once or twice.  His fascination with the rules of combat is quite amusing, but I’m beginning to wonder if his attention toward warfare is quite as healthy – so I attempt to tread lightly and point to the fuzzy picture on the computer screen.

“Yep, they’re soldiers looking for the bad guys who made this mess.”

He placed his G.I. Joe on my desk and moved closer as a smile quickly flashed across his face, but I bit my lower lip and waited.

“War is so cewl!”

There it was and if I had fur, it would have been standing on end right at that moment.

I pulled my son onto my lap and allowed him to watch the video with me, again.  He gasped when I told him that the blown out windows and crumbling building was a hotel similar to one we stayed in recently.  He moved closer to the screen to see the damaged vehicles, some almost unrecognizable, and he was surprised to learn that they were once real and not some special effect.  I pointed at the ambulances and reminded him that there were probably injured people, two of which were reported to have died.

“Is Uncle Buddy going there to fight in a war?”

I found it difficult to prepare myself for his deployment…not being able to see him at our parents’ house on Sundays… isolated and strained to celebrate our 40th birthday without my twin brother… but planning a Christmas without their Uncle Bud was disappointing, to say the least – especially for my children.

Trying to appreciate that war was bad, and Uncle Bud was good, was extremely difficult.

“No, thank goodness, but if America asked him to, he would.  Because it’s his job to protect us and to protect our right to live free.  And sometimes that means he has to protect people in other countries as well.  From leaders who don’t want that kind of freedom for their people. That means that no one can tell you what to be when you grow up; or that your three sisters can’t do something just because they are girls; or no one can tell you to be quiet when you want to talk about something you don’t think is right.  Stuff like that.”

I continued my attempts to help my son understand that gun battles and blowing things up is not as glamorous as some weird and badly animated cartoon might portray.  That a lot of soldiers...who have families just like ours…have died.  That even though I was sad that my brother would be away from his family for the holidays, I was happy that he was okay.

“Will he have snow for Christmas?”

My youngest daughter (3 years old at the time) rubbed her big brown eyes and yawned, fresh from her afternoon nap.  My two oldest girls stopped playing their game and watched me closely as I shook my head and turned off the computer.

“Nah, it’s very hot where he is and he’ll probably wear shorts on Christmas Eve and go swimming on Christmas Day.  Maybe you can draw him a picture of snow and send it to him!  Wouldn’t that be cool?”

I turned away and headed for the kitchen, because I was afraid that I would begin to cry.

“Anybody thirsty?”

We sat at our kitchen table, drank our warm chocolate milk topped with marshmallows and talked about Christmas without Uncle Bud.  I scraped at the dried up glitter glue and spoke of tree lightings, holiday shows and caroling with the girls scouts, but tried to think of a way to make this Christmas a little more, special.  Every year we donate to collections for coaches, teachers, class parties and the food pantry – perhaps this year, we’ll offer to help my sister-in-law package a few gifts at the family support center that will be sent to the troops in Iraq.

“Cewl!”

They finished their mugs.

“What’s for lunch?”

The usual argument ensued and I insisted that they try and agree on one thing, because I would not be making four different meals, when my son interjected.

“Yeah.  ‘Cause that’s ‘cause we live in America.  I say we vote Mommy from being the boss!”

Perhaps my husband is right and there was such a thing as “too much information.”

Rest assured, I acknowledged that the right to vote was indeed a wonderful thing.  And I stressed the fact that even though I may not be the boss of them…I was still their mother...who, incidentally, had a direct line to Santa.

As peace keeping efforts continue overseas, I pray that each and everyone one of us find a little of our own peace and comfort in sharing this holiday season with the people who are close to us – and in the spirit of hope that those of us who are separated will, one day, be together again.

[P.S. – although my brother has since come home (due to a serious illness) and will be with us for the holidays, my children still talk about the” Christmas without Uncle Bud,”   and do understand our family to be forever grateful…for him…but, my thoughts will always be with all the men and women who have dedicated and given their lives to serving our country – Merry Christmas, Uncle Bud!]