From my column this week:

When I meet someone I know has served in the military, I make a point of thanking them for their service. Sophia is the one who remembers, and she follows suit. She loves to hear about World War II and begs for stories of heroism. Brian and I try to talk about what patriotism means, each conversation or activity directed toward the age and understanding level of the children.

This year, the girls made cards for Veterans Day. “You can send them to your brother,” I told them. Sophia didn’t think that sounded right at all. “He’s not a soldier,” she said. “He’s Edward.” She can’t quite wrap her mind around the idea that her big brother is a soldier, ready to defend our country. He’s just Edward.

I try to explain it, but my own vision is clouded by memories.

I met my son in an orphanage in Russia. He wore a blue- and white-striped shirt and hugged me tighter than I’d ever been hugged. That first night, Ed woke us up at least a dozen times to hug first Brian then me. He was so happy to be in a family, and he wanted everyone to know it.

My little soldier used to sit in the back seat of the car and conduct an imaginary orchestra using a banana as a baton. The first time he went to a sleepover at the neighbor’s house, he came home mid-evening to give a report on how much fun he was having.

Edward announced his first career choice at age 9. He wanted to work at McDonald’s, because “they have those cool toys, and people come in and give you money.” Soon after, he felt a draw to the clergy. After all, he reasoned, “You only have to talk for an hour, and then everybody gives you money.” He was pretty focused on his goals.

As he grew, I saw signs that my son was becoming a man. When the septic tank backed up, he stepped up with the shovel. When the cat died, he got the shovel out again and dug the hole, trying to shield me from seeing her as the rain fell on us all and obliterated our tears. He helped with construction projects, fencing and more.

Eventually, Ed abandoned his earlier career choices and enlisted in the Army. With a career in communications, he does get to play with a lot of cool toys. And he has learned he has to work for that money. In January, he will go to Afghanistan. He called to tell us, and I wanted to put my hands over my ears and say “La-la-la-la-la, I’m not listening,” as if that would somehow erase the reality. All that talk of sacrifice and heroism is easier to read about than to endure.

He will come home again a few months later, but it won’t be like that first sleepover when he ran into the kitchen, giddy with details. Now his home is in New York, and he will travel there to be with his wife as she delivers my first grandchild.

Shortly after his daughter is born, my son will return to a war zone. When he was younger, we read the stories, we talked about sacrifice. Now he will understand the emotions Brian felt when he deployed and left all of us here. In living out the lesson, he will understand what he only read about before.

It is hard to imagine, more difficult to explain to my children that heroes started out as everyday folks. They were kids who had dreams and grew up to live them. They showed up, stayed the course and gave their very best.

To my husband, to my son and all the heroes who have served: Thank you.