With that knowledge, Roman had taken it upon himself to be an after-hours running coach for one of the soldiers in his group, a hefty guy, whose extra pounds had been slowing him down in their daily physical training. I pictured my lanky son showing that young man how to pace himself, how to breathe, and — true to form — lobbing just enough good-natured insults to keep the guy moving and motivated.

"You know, it's kinda weird. But with some of these guys, I almost feel like their dad," he told me the last time he was home on leave. And if it felt strange for him to say that, it felt even stranger for me to hear it.

Whenever he speaks of his soldiers, I hear something else in his voice as well. A certain pride. A growing confidence. A gritty love. The lay-down-your-life kind. It makes me proud.

It scares me, too.

As a parent, what I care most about is him. Not politics. Not history. Not some so-called noble cause. I would agree, in principle, that there are things in this world worth fighting and dying for. But whether or not Iraq is one of them is certainly debatable. What really matters to this mother, and to others whose sons and daughters are over there right now, is that our kids return home — safe, sound, whole. The feeling is as powerful as it is instinctual. Ideology pales in comparison. Democracy in the Middle East? Or, dancing someday at your child's wedding? In my heart, it's no contest.

So when Roman types that he might not make sergeant, a selfish hope stirs. His four years in the Army will be up several months before his division is scheduled to return to the States. But he has already told me that if he is a squad leader, he'll stay with his guys until they can all come home together. My thinking is, if he's not their leader, their sergeant, their "dad," if he's just another "grunt," it might actually be possible for him to leave the war zone sooner.

On the one hand, I want him to succeed, to do his best. Of course I do. On the other hand, I also know that his becoming a sergeant now will probably mean more months in harm's way. More bullets to dodge. More waiting roadside bombs to wonder about.

Later the next day he says, again via instant messaging, "Hey, Mom. I passed!"

I stare at his words and gulp. "Way to go, Sarge!!!" I finally type, adding one exclamation point, then another, and another, hoping those keystrokes convey the elation that — forgive me — I cannot feel.

---

Sue Diaz is a freelance writer. She has written several articles for the Monitor about her son's military service.