Yesterday, I was enjoying a crisp winter morning with my children. We were walking back from the coffee shop, where the kids had picked out cookies. The kids were giggling and goofing around. Then I received a text from my cousin asking me what school my sister taught at. Of course, I couldn’t remember.
My sister recently moved to Connecticut and is in her first year of teaching there. When my cousin told me why she was asking, I immediately called my sister. She didn’t answer. I had just been texting her earlier. It is parent/teacher conference time so she didn’t have any students. Even though I had just been texting her, I know how much can change in a minute. Part of me panicked and thought: When was the last time I talked to her? What did I say? Does she know how much I love her? And part of me wouldn’t go there. She answered, she was fine, it wasn’t her school and she didn’t know a thing about it. At that point, neither did I.
When we got home the kiddos wanted to play outside, which we did. We went in for lunch and after lunch I put Eleanor down for her nap. Quinn and I played with play doh for quite a while, rocking our star factory. My morning was full of my children: Laughing, playing and hugging. After play doh Quinn wanted to watch a little TV. I was completely caught off guard when the TV turned on and the bottom of the screen said 18 students dead. And I cried. Right there, right then. When Quinn asked me what was wrong, I told him that some children got hurt and it made mommy sad.
The truth is, as a parent and former teacher, this is my worse nightmare. I can remember moments where the students would be quietly working, and I would look around at these 28 children, left in my care and think: What would I do? And I would think about what I would say, where we would go. I would wonder if I would be courageous and brave like so many of the teachers we are hearing about from Newtown, Connecticut.
My heart breaks. I have cried and cried some more. I think of walking down the halls with my fifth graders, who couldn’t stay in a straight line to save their lives, and walking past a kindergarten class. They walk perfectly straight, and quiet, arms folded–eager to please. They get big goofy grins and wave like mad when they pass a cousin or sibling they know. When I would walk by them, through the large school hallways, they looked like such babies to me. I would see them in the lunch room struggling to open their milk, or finish lunch in their 20 minutes. These children, are our children. They are the heart of America and we are rocked to the core. Grown, professional men could barely get through the newscast. I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of leaving Quinn at preschool on Monday and imagine parents all across America feel the same.
As much as I know I cannot live in fear or raise my children in fear, I want to protect them and keep the safe. I know bad things happen. Not just mass shootings, but awful things happen every.single.day. I also know that I am here. I am present for my children. I love them through and through and they know it. I know them as people. I try to make their moments special. Every.single.night I hold my children and tell them how much I love them, how special they are. We talk about our day and I make sure they know that I think they are kind, caring, smart, funny, interesting, beautiful human beings. I tell them every night that I am the luckiest mom in the world and that they make my heart so happy. Because at the end of the day, no matter what happens, I want them to know they are loved. Truly, deeply loved.
Yesterday, when I planned to write a holiday home tour post, all I could think about were the families in Newtown, Connecticut. Families that probably have Christmas presents wrapped and hidden around their house waiting for the 25th of December. There is no explaining the unexplainable, or rationalizing something so irrational. It is impossible to make sense of what has happened. I have always known my children are a blessing and certainly did not need someone else’s to be taken from them for me to learn that lesson. We cannot even begin to understand the ripple effect of this. It isn’t just 26 people, it is parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, the people who survived, the first responders, and the future of this country. It is every American watching in shock, horror and disbelief wondering how did we get here.
But if something good must come out of this, it is this. We shouldn’t just hug our children tighter THIS weekend. We shouldn’t just make time for family THIS weekend. We, as a country, should take the time to reevaluate our lives and our priorities. We should make sure our children know just how loved they are. We should be angry and we should demand change. This is not a political issue, this is an issue of humanity. This isn’t a rarity. Mass shootings are happening on a monthly basis: shopping malls, movie theaters, schools, salons, temples.
As my babies sleep and I sit and watch this horrifying news, I feel the baby moving inside me. And this cannot be the world we leave for our children. Instead of asking why? Ask what now? I refuse to believe that things cannot change. The pendulum can swing back. There was a time in America where this was not the norm, there are countries where this doesn’t happen. I don’t have the answers, but a real conversation needs to take place. I know that until college I knew nothing of mental health or disorders, other than what a few blockbuster movies may have told me. I know that there is a lack of support for people who need help. I know that there is a stigma attached to mental health issues. I know that compassion and empathy need to be taught. I know that we live in a violent society where people are desensitized.
Lean on each other, pray, share and try to heal, but do not forget. We have hit rock bottom and America is crying for help.
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