Letters!

Okay. Just one. A letter. Not to me. But mentioning me! From TB! To my dad! Asking me to write! To him!! Amazing the joy and happiness that this one little mention brings to my life. How little it takes to make a mother happy. Of course, we are the ones who receive the Christmas cards, and Mother's Day cards made out of macaroni, glitter and string, and then behave like this is the second coming of DaVinci, so...

TB wrote to my father, telling him when Family Day and Graduation are. So I'm guessing we are invited. Yaay!

So now we have received some word from the far Planet Soldier. A written epistle, of paragraphical proportions! Unfortunately, receiving this document means also that we must read it. He has gone through the gas chamber (not that I would expect gas would be a worry for him - no WMDs over there, remember? I think the problem is going to be more bomb-related, myself). He says basic training is easy, boring, and occasionally fun. He's in the classroom a lot, and he says he's excited about getting to shoot his M16. I fervently hope for more classroom time, lots of it, involving no guns, no bullets, and boredom galore.

I almost wish he were pissed at me and hadn't written. This now means that I get to leave behind the contemplations of "is he pissed at me? Why? What did I do? (Enter into Blame Circle 7 million, three hundred and six and spin fruitlessly until exhausted)" and move on to contemplation and worry for what happens after basic, when I might have to include a country on the envelope when I write to him.