That’s because I’m taking the kids camping.  Louise can’t wait for us to drive down the driveway a second time (I always forget something and have to come back at least once) giving her a few days of well-deserved peace.

I’ve still got plenty of stories to tell from my deployment, but for now…the trip home.

The blessed day had arrived and at the appointed time I made my way to the pax terminal.  While we passengers were ready to go, our ride home was still en route.  In its parking space sat an IL-76 (I know this because “IL-76″ was painted on the nose). 

I call it "Chain Link in Sharp Focus"...ruined by that IL-76 in the background.

And then my fairy godmother turned our Russian pumpkin into an American carriage.

In the military rank has its privileges.  Being of modest rank I have to earn (most of) my perks, including preferred seating.  The means to that end was baggage handling duty so when volunteers were sought I stepped right up.  My reward: boarding an empty plane and picking my seat.  Though this aircraft didn’t have first class seats I did score two seats by a window in row 1 and space in an overhead bin.

Still, I was a little disappointed.  I was ready to dive in to the baggage and show the volunteers in their 20s that a 45 year old could keep up in the desert heat.  When the call went out for an additional body in the the belly of the plane I trotted up the belt loader, gloved and ready for action.  Hell, I’d been doing P90X for a couple of months; what did it matter that I’d been awake for over 24 hours and had already worked out twice in that time?

It mattered not, for as I entered the belly of the 767 I was handed a counter, a pen and some paper and told to count how many bags went into each section.  I was also given a sign reading “lame” to place on my back and a card giving me preferred seating on all short buses.  I tried to trade for some real work several times during the loading but no one would switch.

Punks.  I’d better not catch them on my lawn, that’s all I’m going to say about that.

Our first stop was Leipzig, Germany, arriving around 2 am local time.  Once on the ground we were whisked away to a magical world of pay phones, potted plants, and open gift shops.  Before catching a nap I did a little shopping.  Eschewing the cans of Jack and Coke and cannabis iced tea I hit the chocolate section, taking home $44 worth of Europe’s finest.  That $44 became $56 after it was converted to euros (to charge my card) and back to dollars (to debit my account), but it was still a bargain compared to the $100 I spent on a pay phone call home.

Plus I have an extra large bag of Maltesers to show for it.  Suck it, Whoppers…I’ll take Maltesers over you any day.

Leipzig's greatest attraction? Long, armrest-free benches.

Less than five hours after landing we were airborne again, and a mere 9 hours later we were on the ground in Baltimore.

Do you know what’s cool about traveling with the military?  We all know how to wait in line.  When a second line at customs was started by splitting the existing line, everyone just followed along in an orderly fashion.  There was none of that line jumping you see by civilians at the grocery store when a new cash register opens up…you know, where some jackass at the end of the line tries to zip to the front ahead of everyone else.

It wasn’t clear when I’d actually land in Baltimore, clear customs, and get my bags (I still had to wait for them despite spending time in customs…that’s BWI for you) so rather than have my family meet me at the airport we decided I’d surprise the kids by catching a taxi home.

It worked.

My youngest was closest to the door...

...followed by my daughter, still in pajamas...

...and eventually, all three!

They weren’t the only ones who were surprised.  The first difference I noticed was that my wife had clearly been working out in my absence.  Sorry, no pictures…yet…she was holding the camera. ”Where’s the rest of you?” was the only thing I could think to say.

The second thing I noticed was my fantastic new kitchen.

A French door refrigerator and granite countertops? Hand me my apron, son, I've got work to do!

A quick shower, a change of clothes, and we celebrated my return in true style.

At Costco.

Yep, less than two hours after I walked through the front door we headed to the Costco, my favorite store in the world.

Their $1.50 hot dog never tasted so good.

I believe peeves is dead. She is under my bed. I called Bob to help. I am horrified. Don’t know what happened but know she is gone. Jack in total denial.

Peeves and Snitch napping in front of the fire shortly after we brought them home.

Peeves was one of a pair of sister kittens we adopted about 2 1/2 years ago.  Jack, my oldest son at 10, had totally bonded with Peeves.  Every night he’d take her up into his loft bed and they’d fall asleep together.  She would lay around his room watching him play with Legos, occasionally carrying a Lego helmet or head downstairs to bat around.

I immediately tried calling the house and my wife’s cell phone but both calls went unanswered.  It turned out they were having a funeral for Peeves in the backyard.  Bob, the handyman who is remodeling our kitchen, came over and dug the grave for them.  I didn’t know this was going on and it wasn’t clear from my wife’s e-mail that Peeves was dead…the only thing I could do was check my e-mail repeatedly.

I finally received a second, equally simple e-mail, that ended the hope I was hanging on to:

We’re here now.  We just buried her.  Please call.

Jack and Peeves relaxing with a little tube.

I called and spoke to each child in turn, starting with Jack.  I was expecting him to be beside himself on the phone but he spoke in measured tones, explaining he was trying to remain calm.  I don’t remember much of what I said to him – I do remember telling him it was alright to cry and Mom was there for him.  He’d recently sent me a picture he drew of Peeves that I’d hung up in my room - he asked me to send it back.  He also said he didn’t want me to use the word “dead”.

After Jack I spoke to Isabelle, who told me she told Peeves’ sister about it, and Cole, who asked me if we could go to the pound to get a kitten.

Jack's drawing, hanging in my room before I sent it back.

A lot more words than that were exchanged but I really don’t remember what we said.  They were upset and I was in tears.  I was sad about the loss of Peeves, who was a very mellow, easy-going cat.  I was heartbroken for the kids – I knew this would be hard on all of them, especially Jack.

I also hated not being at home, not being there for them.  It’s a terrible feeling to be separated from your family in a crisis, unable to do anything but wait helplessly.  I went through this once before when my Cole swallowed a quarter…I was able to make jokes about that because it came out just fine (literally).  There would be no happy ending to this story.

Through all this I’m still at work and the day shift is coming on, with assorted higher ranking people coming by the weather desk for an update.  I’m grateful that my night shift cohort was still on duty; he handled all the traffic while I huddled over the phone, simultaneously trying to keep my conversations private while speaking loud enough to be heard by my family.

My wife later sent an e-mail to her family…it’s a good thing I didn’t see it until after I was back in my room because it hit me like a Mortal Kombat fatality move (“Finish him!”).  It was the description of the funeral service that did me in.  Louise later told me they chose a spot by the fish pond because the other cats look out the window at it and will be able to see where Peeves is.

I discovered Peeves under my bed, passed away.  I don’t know what had happened, but she clearly had been there for some time.  I was really shaken up and called Bobby and asked (begged really) for him to come over and help.  He was kind enough to do just that.  Meanwhile, I had the horrible news to give to the kids, Jack in particular.  He was in denial for quite some time, but after Bobby arrived and he and Cole insisted upon seeing her, they were all very upset.  I don’t know if I was right or wrong to let them see her, but she looked peaceful and didn’t appear to have suffered any injury or trauma.  I suppose it helped Jack believe that she was really gone.  I feel so terrible and hated every minute of it.  I never expected such a thing to happen.  Ever.

Bob dug a hole for us in the backyard by the fish pond and Jack wrapped her in a blanket he had from when he was born, and we buried her.  Iz said some lovely words, Jack and Cole both wrote nice messages on her box, and we put a temporary stone on her grave until we can order a nice one for her. 
 
I sent Paul a quick email and he called later and spoke to all of us.  We are all shocked and heartbroken.  Everyone is in bed with me tonight.

What did Peeves die of?  We don’t know.  Our cats are strictly inside cats and are up to date on their shots.  She didn’t appear ill and was acting fine up until she went under our bed.  That’s not  a normal place for her to go.  It was all very sudden and unexpected.  Perhaps a congenital heart defect, who knows?

And now the mourning and healing begins.  I happen to have a copy of our entire digital photo collection here with me so I sent back photos and movies of Peeves.  Louise ordered some prints and they’re going to make a memorial photo album.  They’ll also order a stone for Peeves from the same place I bought two when my dogs had to be put to sleep  (Artistic Etching - the web site is straight from the 90′s but their work is beautiful).  Cole made a picture to comfort Jack; Jack made a sign to hang on a tree by where Peeves is buried.

We’re not the kind of people to carry around little dogs around in handbags but we love our pets just the same.  They’re cherished members of the family and we all feel sad when one dies.  As parents that feeling is doubled for Louise and I because we feel pain when the kids hurt.  And for me, well, I should have been there for them.

Up until now I never paid any attention to the calendar…I didn’t see any point in counting days.  I’m keeping an eye on it now.

The source of my son's curiosity. Mine too, for that matter.

The other night we were all hanging out watching West Side Story on TV(because when you’re a Jet,  you’re a Jet all the way…we’re cool like that).  Really not the most appropriate movie for a six-year old but you know how it is.  You’re so careful with the first child, playing classical music in the car, making your own baby food, and by the time the last one rolls around all the standards have gone out the window…you’re letting him stay up and watch Broadway gang musicals past his bedtime.

It’s the point in the movie right after the rumble in which a couple of guys were stabbed to death (sorry if this is a spoiler, but the movie’s been out for nearly 50 years…have you been that busy?  I won’t tell you who got knifed, just the same).  The scene features Maria (Natalie Wood) and Anita (Rita Moreno).  Cole, my young quarter-swallower, asks, “What happens if you get stabbed in the boob?”

Rare is the occasion I’ve got no response – this was one of those times.  Louise picked up pretty quickly what was on his mind.

“They don’t pop, if that’s what you’re thinking”, replies my wife dryly.

That was indeed what he was thinking.

“Oh”, he says, and pauses to adjust his world view to this new bit of information.  “What are they made of?”

Since we were on a subject near and dear to my heart I found my voice.  “They’re like two blobs of fat”.  (If I can ruin things for my daughter I owe the same to my son)  “Sort of like having a butt on your chest…except your butt’s made of muscle.”

And thus ended that discussion…whenever “butt” enters the conversation with my kids, civility takes a powder.

Boob.  It’s curious that he used that word.  We’re really good about using proper names for body parts…penis, vagina, ulnar nerve (“if I hear you call it ‘funny bone’ one more time mister, you’re grounded!”)  I guess “boobs” is our word of choice for “breasts”, not by any conscious decision though.

My kids should count their blessings.  Back in my day, when I was a wee (ahem) lad we referred to the penis as a “rinky”.

I know!  I’m just as surprised as you that it didn’t catch on.  “Dude, why the fuck did you put your cigarette out in my beer?  Sometimes you’re such a rinky!”

I’m sure the Richards of the world would rather have it that way.