Duty(30)

“To be honest, sir, yes,” I tell him, scribbling my signature at the bottom of the first form, which says that I've already cleared my quarters with post housing. I ponied up for the cleaning crew to come through instead of waiting for the normal inspection process, two hundred dollars, which is kind of a rip off, but that's okay because it saves me hours of cleaning and re-inspections. “I've got a few friends at Bragg. And in some ways, I kinda feel like it'll be nice to work with a different kind of unit.”

“I can understand that. Doing just mob-de-mob can get boring. You've got about a year left on your enlistment. Are you thinking of re-upping?”

“I honestly don't know, sir. The Army's been pretty good to me, and everyone here at Lewis has really handled my being a single mother well. I know I kinda blew some minds when I showed up from USMA and turned out to be pregnant with Lance,” I muse, signing the next form which says that I've turned over all sensitive or secret documents. Considering I never signed for any, that was pretty damn easy. “It's going to depend on how things work at Bragg, I guess. I mean, I've done nearly four years in non-deployable garrison units. Not a lot of soldiers can say that. I don't know what it’ll be like there.”

“Wise enough to know that you don't know . . . sure we couldn't have made you an officer?” Seward jokes, then sobers. “You're right, though. Rate of deployment is a lot different than it was even five years ago, but still, units rotate in and out of Bragg all the time.”

“I know, sir. Lance doesn't know it, but part of that trip to see my parents in Minnesota is to square away any last details in case I do get deployed.”

Seward hums, nodding. He's been around the Army. He knows the truth. The stress and strain of being a single mother as well as a soldier is hard, and it’s the biggest reason a lot of single parents leave service. Still, he tries to give me an encouraging smile. “To let you in on a secret, my first few field training exercises after my first daughter was born were kind of the same way. Sure, I missed her, but to be able to actually sleep without listening for the bottle cry or the poopy diaper scream was nice.”

I sign the last of the paperwork and enjoy a slice of cake with Lance before leaving the battalion HQ, shaking hands with a few of my co-workers as we leave. My RAV4 is already packed, Lance's car seat is strapped in, and I'm planning on changing clothes tonight when we stop at the first hotel on our route to Minnesota. “Ready, trooper?”

“Hooah, Mommy!” Lance says, grinning. He loves pretending to be a soldier, and while I sometimes wonder if I'm doing the right thing by letting him indulge in the play so much, I know I can't really stop it either. He’s spent all of his short life so far being dropped off at five forty-five at the post daycare and spending eleven hours or more in the care of the people there, and he sees more people in ACUs than he does anything else. I give credit to the staff at the center though. They try to keep the Army-ness from overtaking everything about the kids' lives, and Lance likes other things, too. Still, he's a three-year-old with a working knowledge of Army jargon as much as he does regular English. I have to remember to not use Army-speak around him so much.

We leave post and get on the Interstate heading toward Seattle. Lance amuses himself with his favorite car game, car spotting, as I head north along the Interstate. We've got time. I'm using three weeks of accumulated leave in addition to the normal leave the Army grants, so for the next month, I'm going to be able to relax and spend time with my son.

“Hey, Mommy, I just saw a Ferrari!” Lance says, and I smile. Since seeing the movie, Cars, at the daycare center, every sports car is a Ferrari to Lance, and he loves them. “It's yellow!”

I look to my left and see what he's talking about, and while it's not a Ferrari, it's still European. “Actually, buddy, that's a Lambo.”

“A Lambo?” He asks, and I knew I should have just kept my mouth shut. Ah well, it's better than listening to Ariana Grande on the radio for the next few minutes.

“A Lamborghini,” I expand, turning off the radio. I've got some songs ready for the radio dead zones in Montana and North Dakota, where my only choices are AM talk radio or AM radio preachers, but I'll save that for later. “It's another type of sports car.”

“Is it as fast as a Ferrari?” Lance asks, and I shake my head.

“I really don't know, buddy. Does it look fast?”

“Ah-huh!” Lance says, then grins. “You should buy a Ferrari.”

I laugh, I can't help it. He's just too innocent sometimes. “Honey, there's no way I can buy a Ferrari.”

“Why?”

Lance's favorite question, but at least one I've answered before here. “Honey, a Ferrari costs a lot more than Mommy makes.”

“How much money do you have?” Lance asks, and I'm glad that he doesn't quite grasp the total realm of money yet. He knows I use my bank card or cash to buy things, but that's about it. Thankfully, I've watched my money well, and I've never had to really scrape by yet.

“Enough to take care of us,” I tell Lance. Twenty-six thousand a year and getting to stay in post housing isn’t too bad. Not rich, but I didn't have to worry about qualifying for the loan on my RAV4. I'll take it for now. “Enough that we can have fun sometimes, too.”