Friday, December 14, 2012


Like so many people, mothers, out there, I am mourning today.  The day started like many others.  I was on the phone with another attorney when my two and a half year-old, whom I am trying to potty train, stood up on my nightstand and peed.  Oy.  That's about right.  I rolled my eyes, I picked him up and carried him to the bathroom without skipping a beat on my telephone conference.

Shortly after 10:00 a.m., I saw the first mention of another school shooting.  At that time, there was absolutely no information other than it was being reported.  We got busy.  Kaia refused to get dressed, then got dressed, then put her jammies back on and refused to get dressed again.  Mikko did well on the potty.  We watched some cartoons, we played some Thomas the Train on Mommy's phone, and we probably wrestled and tickled a little.  We went to the craft store to pick up the fixings for some projects the littles are making for their grandparents.  We came home and the kids played with stickers while I made them some lunch.

As they ate, I happened to scan the news again and I haven't been able to stop since.  20 children lost.  20 sets of parents who have holiday gifts that will go unopened.  20 moms who will wonder if the last thing they said to their child conveyed enough love for them to truly know.  20 broken families.  And those are my thoughts of the living.  When I try to wrap my incapable head around the terror these tiny people must have felt, what my children might have felt had I been less fortunate, I can scarcely breathe.

I sobbed into my children's chests as I pulled them away from their lunches.  Kaia asked what was the matter.  I only told her that I'd read a very sad story.  Mikko patted my back and said, "It's okay, Mommy."  When they came home from a visit at Grandma's this afternoon, the simple weight of their bodies in my arms, a feeling which is so familiar, soothed me.  The thought that I might never again fit their tiny bodies into the perfect contours of our hugs is more than I can bear.

And that last is the thought I imagine the victims' own mothers lamenting.  I know there will be a last time that my daughter sits on my lap, that my son needs my help on the potty, that my kids will want to be with me more than anyone else in the world.  I have faith that those lasts are far, far away from now, but my heart goes out to those mothers, those family members, whose lasts came far too soon.