Ethan Turns Two

Today is my grandson Ethan's birthday. He's two years old. When I called this morning he was eating his breakfast and playing with Woody and Buzz Lightyear and his blue hippopotamus. I sang happy birthday and asked him what he wanted to be when he grows up. "Eat peanut butter," he happily declared. That's my grandson, always thinking of his next meal. I think I'll go have some peanut butter myself.

His mother has a follow-up doctor's appointment today. She was getting ready to take a shower when I called. On the last day before Tom left for Afghanistan they were rear-ended at a traffic light and there was a scare with the baby and Stephanie had to go to the hospital. They wanted to keep her overnight but she begged them to let her go home.

Tom has called twice. He's in Kandahar right now but soon he'll go to the mountains. His specialty demands it. He's on the bomb squad and this is what he was trained for. Young men have been going off to war for centuries, to uncertain fates and unspeakable horrors, but this feels different. Before he left he made videos for Ethan, videos of reading stories and playing guitar. Ethan watches them every day. Kourtney, the sixth grader, is worried and nervous. "She's not taking it well," her mother said. She's better when they get a chance to talk. The second time she was at school.

Kandahar is like a resort. There's a McDonalds and a Burger King and a TGI Fridays. Internet service is expensive and not many soldiers sign up. Tom calls. Stephanie sounded brave, but scared. I'm sure she cries herself to sleep some nights. For his birthday Ethan wants apple-cinnamon muffins. I'm sure his daddy must be thinking of him today.

I sang happy birthday and told him I loved him. "I love you too," he said in his little-boy voice. I've only met him a few times. He can hardly know who I am. But he's sweet, a charmer, a healthy, beautiful boy.

My life is out of balance right now and filled with uncertainty. I'm always broke and barely connected to the people I love. I exercise and play poker and drag myself to work, and Marie and I tentatively act in accord with our careful truce, each with our secret fears and disappointments, not wanting to let go of each other but not quite in love either. A life is the sum total of the decisions you make, the attitudes you adopt, the beliefs you hold and the habits you practice, and there is one more vital element, the clarity with which you see things. I've been out of balance for a long time, in delay or denial, postponing and full of regret. What do people live for? How do they keep hope and purpose alive? It's the simple things, I'm sure, and choosing faith over despair. Stephanie's getting ready for the doctor and Marie is taking papers to the agency for her job application. Austin's getting ready to hang out with friends. And I'm in my chair, trying to scratch together enough good luck to ease our misery.

A lot of times we live numb and disappointed lives, not quite aware of the source of own unease, not quite aware of ourselves. The big moments and movements are far beyond our control. Nothing prepares you for the shock of betrayal or losing your job or car wrecks or going off to war. The small decisions add up, however, and in the long run they have a momentum like a strong current in the broad river of time.