On Being the Mother of Three Sons

I’m the mother of three sons.

“They” say there’s a special place in heaven for the mother of three sons.

Which is what we wrote on the third boy’s birth announcement.

It’s been a great life and I love everything about them.

Raising those boys changed how I looked at the world.

Even now when my friends give birth to a third son, I like to pull out one of my first articles published in a Navy magazine during the last century and send them a copy.

Enjoy!

On Being the Mother of Three Sons

After our third son was born I spent several days in the hospital thinking about life with a family of boys.

I contemplated camping trips and ball games, more Tonka trucks, and Matchbox cars.

I knew I was in for a life of action and activities with a decidedly masculine twist.

Other women I knew had three boys. I thought of Marty Hills, Queen Elizabeth, and even Mamie EIsenhower.

But when I got to Steve Dietz’s mom, I paused and my blood ran cold.

Mrs. Dietz raised three fine sons and they are a credit to her. But all three are in the military and two are pilots.

Queen Elizabeth and Mamie Eisenhower also saw their sons in uniform.

It was while thinking of them that I fully contemplated the risks of raising only sons.

War as a possibility–or play?

My sons probably won’t fight in a war like WWII. But as you all know, there are risks involved in being in the military, and 20 years from now my boys, all three of them, could be on the front lines somewhere.

And my heart would be breaking with fear.

Of course, the idea doesn’t bother them.

They play outside with makeshift guns, shooting and charging, building forts, and tossing water balloon grenades.

Among friends and brothers, they move plastic Army men through the dust, setting up mock battles, and crying when too many of their “guys” die.

They argue about who will be the good guys and who will be the bad guys, and often make up imaginary enemies just to be on the safe (and same) side.

Construx snap into swords, the boys build amazing bomber aircraft, and delight in the helicopters they construct.

We have a Lego castle and a host of Lego men with all sorts of medieval artillery designed to attack.

They lay siege for hours, plastic bows and arrows taking aim with the small bricks tumbling down.

Sidestepping the explanations

I, the coward, am amazed by all this. I’ve only seen a gun up close once in my life.

I didn’t even want my children to own play guns, much less spend their hours in war games.

My husband (every boy needs a father to protect him from his mother) fashioned a compromise: they could have guns but the weapons had to stay outside.

I will, however, allow squirt guns in the bathtub.

For them, of course, war is just a game.

We don’t allow our children to watch much television, but over the years they have seen almost every submarine movie ever made.

With a submariner father, they are well versed in torpedoes, conning towers, reactors, and diving.

They saw it as a marvelous machine and never thought to wonder about a submarine’s real purpose.

And so our oldest son was shocked the day he finally thought to ask what a torpedo actually did.

He couldn’t believe they blew up ships and then made the connection: “Do they kill people?”

I’m glad to report the thought made him uncomfortable.

The results?

I began to think we may have overexposed them to WWII when, during the Olympics, our five-year-old watched a Japanese skier going down the slopes.

“Look, Mom,” he said pointing at the rising sun flag. “There are the Japanese. They are the enemy. You have to watch out for them.”

I chose my words carefully, trying to explain the war ended many years ago and the Japanese are now our friends.

He seemed to understand, but lately he’s been questioning me again about war. “It’s a terrible thing. I hope we never have to live through a war.”

I hope so, too.

And so we raise our boys with hopes and dreams, take them camping, and watch them play ball.

We teach them history and how to play chess. We read Bible stories and practice diplomacy.

Our family visits other nations and discusses foreign customs.

And I pray that 20 years from now our nation will be at peace.

Today

All these years later none of my sons have gone to war, but plenty of our friends’ sons have.

My heart seizes some days in concern and I pray for them.

All three sons understand history and diplomacy, have traveled the world, and seldom shot anything other than a paintball gun.

They play international games across the dining room table and know far more than I ever will about submarines, history, and war.

But like every parent–of sons and daughters– I wish the world was at peace.

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