No words, Peeps, can describe how I’ve been feeling since Friday’s news.
I feel so many emotions, my mind races through so many thoughts, but no words are coming together. But I have to try.
I’m fed up with the non-stop media blitz of these kinds of tragedy. They fumble and bumble information in an effort to be the first. It leaves us confused and dazed and even more unsure, more unable to wrap our minds around what happened. Then they interviewed the children who escaped. How parasitic, opportunistic, selfish? This media sensation was a life-altering event. For a first grader. Give them and their families peace. Shielding my own children from this horror wasn’t the only reason I avoided TV coverage.
The anger I felt on Friday just swirled and whirled all around my brain, and pushed aside the grief and sadness for a bit. I was angry at the media, obviously, but I was angry at gun-enthusiasts, gun-control proponents, people asking for prayer, people saying that God isn’t in our schools, everyone on both sides of every debate. It made no sense, but that’s how I felt. I just wanted them to all shut the fuck up and focus. Focus.
So Friday night, I did just that. I put on some inspirational music, lit a candle, and I focused.
Saturday, my anger had ebbed, and it was a busy family day. We were making our holiday trek up to Staten Island to visit family. I focused. On my husband, on my daughters, on not getting lost when we got off the Jersey Turnpike, on balancing engaging with my in-laws with supervising my kids, on keeping track of my twins and our 10-year-old niece in the swarms of drunk Santas and seasonal tourists in NYC. It was madness, Peeps. But whenever there was a quiet moment, a single thought would pop up, “I can’t imagine how scared they were.” That one thought kept sneaking into my consciousness and trying to take hold. “Their last moments on Earth were terrifying.” I couldn’t avoid it. I still cannot.
Sunday I spent a quiet day cuddling and watching holiday cartoons with my babies. Just laughing and kissing and telling them a million times that I love them. Lala told me that I am now limited to one hug a day, to which I told her that’s impossible and I cannot abide by that. Loopsy told me that she KNOWS I love her, and I don’t have to tell her anymore. But I still do.
Monday, I finally braved it. I logged back online, and read the stories, saw the pictures of the victims. I saw my daughters’ smiles in each of theirs. I can’t help but put myself in their parent’s shoes. I can’t begin to imagine how they are going on. I want to help. I want to stop this from ever happening anywhere again. I want a solution, an answer to our prayers, our calls to action, our sobs and shouts of rage.
What can we do? How do we honor these babies and their educators?
We can remember. We can hold onto love and refuse to let go. We’re living it all for them, for every soul who has gone on before us. Life is a gift. We owe it our best.