``They're sending my daughter to Iraq.''

I'm crying as I talk to the policeman who stopped me for speeding just a few blocks from my daughter's apartment. ``I came here to see her right before she goes.''

``Don't get upset, lady,'' he says.

``I'm already upset,'' I shout at him. I'm bawling as I root through my glove compartment, hunting for my car registration.

``OK, OK, lady,'' he says. ``You can go.'' He doesn't even wait to see my registration.

I've got to pull myself together, I think. I can't cry in front of my daughter, who's busy packing for an unspecified amount of time in that desert paradise, Iraq.

Her husband has been stationed there for three months already, and she's relayed all sorts of useful information to me, like, ``Be careful what kind of food you mail him, Mom. It's 100 degrees there. Someone sent him a package of gummy bears and by the time they got there, they were one big gummy-ball glob.'' And, ``You might have to send us water and baby wipes. Just in case we're still being rationed to two liters of drinking water a day and one shower a week.''

How come I haven't been hearing all this on the news, I wonder.

The days I spent with my daughter before she deployed to Iraq and the conversations we had are etched in my mind.

Her stuff is all over the apartment -- on the floor, tables, couch. I can smell their German shepherd, but he's no longer here. Two weeks ago, she drove him to her mother-in-law's.

I try to stay out of the way while she packs, so I sit in the overstuffed armchair her husband loves, and read all the articles I've printed out from CommonDreams.org and TruthOut.org and MoveOn.org about the low morale of the soldiers in Iraq, the nine Democratic candidates running for president and the lack of weapons of mass destruction.

I don't say a word to her about any of this. I'm on strict orders. She told me right after my arrival, ``No politics, Mom.''

I get up only when she needs me, which is mainly to help her hold her duffle bags tight so she can get them to shut. She has two giant duffel bags and one giant backpack. And she's a little 5-foot thing. But tough, of course. She's Army.

She plays with her new goggles, taking the shades in and out. ``Sometimes the Army gets us cool stuff,'' she says.

``What do you want me to send you?'' I ask. ``Newsweek? Time?''

``No. Just People magazine,'' she says. ``The Army will give us the news. At least what they want us to know. Send some books, too. And dried peaches, apricots. The organic kind. I'd probably really like some spring water. Anything you send will taste good over there. I have enough toiletries for three months. After that, I'll need more. Send little packages. Not big ones.''

While she stuffs in some desert tan camouflage boots and a desert tan camouflage flak vest and a desert tan camouflage helmet, I pick up the handbook with the Army green cover and four simple letters -- I-R-A-Q -- that's sitting on the coffee table next to me.

In it, there's a brief history of the country, a very brief glossary of Arabic, and page after page of pictures and descriptions of the weapons used by Iraqis. Plus some photos of poisonous snakes.

I close the book and go back to reading about how the Democratic senators are trying to get open hearings on the weapons of mass destruction and the Bush administration's pumped-up intelligence before the war.

``I'm almost packed,'' my daughter says. ``Do you want to come on my errands? I have to go to the base. Do you mind?''

It's a half-hour drive and we walk up and down the PX aisles trying to find black socks in her size. No luck. Then to the eyeglass store. More bad news. The prescription sunglasses she ordered aren't ready. She's worried about only having her contacts in that desert sand.

``I'll take your prescription back with me and mail the glasses to you,'' I offer.

After she's crammed the last package of baby wipes in her carry-on, it's off to the movies. My daughter is an avid movie fan, with a collection of more than 500 videos and DVDs, and she wants to see ``The Hulk'' before she goes.

I usually avoid violent movies, but I'm in ``Support Mom'' mode. If she can go to Iraq, I can see ``The Hulk.''

I have a little trouble following the innuendos of the movie's plot. What exactly is the father shooting himself up with? And what exactly does he think will happen to his son? But I have no trouble realizing that anger makes this poor guy explode into a not-so-jolly, but kindly, green giant monster.

Surprisingly, my daughter likes the movie even less than I do.

``The Army isn't like that,'' she growls as we leave the theater. ``They make us look like idiots. Soldiers wouldn't just watch the ones in front of them get shot up and then keep going and get shot, too. We don't follow orders mindlessly.''

I'm a little confused here. I thought the point was that they did follow orders. But I'm careful to keep my mouth shut. I can tell this isn't the time for a question.

When I get ready to go to sleep, she asks me if I can do the last of her laundry before I leave the next morning.

``And if you're still sleeping when I leave, I love you, Mom. Goodbye.''

``I love you too, sweetie,'' I say.

Of course, I'm up early in the morning. And we say goodbye again. I give her a big hug and she gives me one back.

``Be safe,'' I say.

And I do the laundry. And fold it. And make up her bed with it. With sheets she won't sleep on for who knows how long. And when I'm checking around the apartment to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, a purple button in a dish on her coffee table catches my eye.

It says ``Peace'' in three languages. Shalom. Peace. Salaam.

Barbara Diamond is a writer who lives in Northampton, Mass.

Copyright 2003 Times Union

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