"Daddy's home"

I went to get a new Ft. Drum vehicle sticker for my truck this afternoon. While I was waiting there, women with children came into the MP station to get a temporary pass. It was not difficult to tell that they were not familiar with post. I had an idea why they were there.
"Is your husband with the 42nd?"
"Yes, he gets home today," was the rushed response. She had a toddler in arms and three others crowding her legs. She had to go back to the vehicle to get registration papers and proof of insurance for the desk clerk. [I hate our bureaucracy that punishes innocent family members under the pretext of “security” concerns. Nobody can convince me (I don’t care their rank or position) that a wife of a deployed soldier with four children who has never been on post is a security risk and needs to prove liability insurance and registration validation before they can see their husband!!!)]
She was in a hurry….the tension was palpable.
“How long did you travel?”
“Four and a half hours,” was the reply.
“You have plenty of time. I know that the plane was delayed about 45 minutes and there are still lots of things to be done before he can be released. You won’t be late. He has been on the plane for 45 hours getting here.”
I played with the little boy who would not stop squirming.
“He only recognizes Daddy as the man on the ‘puter.’He has been gone so long that our son doesn't remember him in person, only on the web cam.”
At the mention of “Daddy” the boy started piping up “I-RAK.” “I-RAK”
“No, Daddy is not in Iraq. Daddy's home.”
“Will your husband be driving the vehicle while on post?” the clerk asked.
Silence.
“I don’t know. Will they let him out? Can we go somewhere?”
“Say, ‘Yes,’” I offered. “You never know. He may get to visit some.”
The Mom brightened at the prospect.
The clerk smiled and shrugged realizing she asked a moot question. She should have automatically included the husband. How would it hurt to write one more name on a line? It is too easy to be nice to these families, yet we love our policies and procedures.
By then four more wives and enough children to fill a school bus were in the small room each wondering what to do.
“Are you here to meet the 42nd?” I asked.
“Yes!” they all chorused, glad that someone understood who they were and why they were here.
“Welcome to Fort Drum.” I smiled and continued. “We’re glad you are here. Get a temporary pass at this desk and don’t forget to get a map with the yellow directions on it to the gymnasium where your husband is. You have plenty of time.” The relief was immediate. Their plans and waiting and anxiety were about to end with hugs and kisses.

I needed to leave the building. My eyes were tearing up. Reunions almost always make me cry.