Feb. 22

This morning, I loaded my kids into the back seat of the car and headed to Camp Pendleton's hospital, convinced that my toes were broken from a bizarre stubbing incident the night before.

As we approach the first camp on base, I brace myself. I watch my daughter in the rear-view mirror and see her eyebrows lift and mouth open. She points at the first set of buildings she sees and exclaims, "Daddy's office! See Daddy?"

So, very gently, I say the speech I repeat almost daily: "Daddy is on a long trip in the desert. Remember? See how there aren't many people around? They all went on the trip with Daddy."

As usual, she nods her head, narrows her eyes and falls silent. Then, she states with confidence, "Come back."

"Yes," I say, "He'll come back. But not today."

Hours later, I drive home, embarrassed that all I needed was Motrin and a piece of tape wrapped around my toes. For the rest of the day, my daughter continuously tries to wiggle my aching toes, and wraps tape around the toes of every stuffed animal in the house.

Three weeks and I've still received no communication. He's just gone into the abyss, sucked into some vast black hole in the Middle East.

Even astronauts e-mail and phone from their shuttles. Seriously, am I to believe the Kuwaiti desert is more remote than outer space? Gimme a break.

The subject of "masking" intrigued Blair when he studied it at the Basic School eight years ago.

Although I'm not certain of the Marine Corps official definition, masking is basically a coping mechanism that enables soldiers to accomplish missions without becoming overwhelmed with emotion.

My neighbors and I are masking. At the playground, we help kids on the monkey bars, briefly discuss world news, and move on to other topics. It's just not productive to stay glued to CNN or focus on the risks that lay ahead for our loved ones. Riding the emotional roller coaster is exhausting; it's definitely easier to jump off.

Besides, right now there is no war, and there is still hope for peace.

For twenty-three days I've slowly turned my mailbox key, peered into the box, and pulled out the usual fliers, bills, and letters from Mom.

Today, I turned that key and hit the jackpot. Strewn amongst the normal junk mail were three glorious letters from my honey.

I rushed back to the house, waving my prize to a neighbor who was pacing outside. "I got my first letters!"

Little did I know that it was her due date, and she was walking with her mother and children, trying to induce labor. She had yet to hear from her husband, who left before Blair.

Although I had envisioned saving the letters to read in the evening hours, I tore into them as soon as I stepped into my house. Blair described the vastness of the desert, the poor air quality from the oil fields and the ever-present sand and wind. ("It just ain't California.")

True to his promise to write about daily life, Blair wrote rather professional notes detailing the high morale of the Marines, his confidence in key leaders and condition of his gear.

Love notes these were not. However, I found it reassuring to know that, masking or not, his head is where it should be.