I didn't immediately understand what had happened. I certainly didn't comprehend that children - innocent six and seven year olds - were the targeted victims.
When I finally was able to read one of the reports for myself, I didn't believe it. The senselessness of it all reminded me of the shock I initially experienced after 9/11. On that September day, I sat in front of the television, struggling with the enormity of what had happened as it slowly sank in.
All Friday evening and into Saturday, numerous Facebook friends were posting about the senselessness; they were sending prayers to the families; they were debating gun control and "liking" pages in memory of the victims; they were commenting about their own children and how they would hold them a little tighter and a little longer. I had to close the browser and walk away. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to think about it... because every time it entered my mind, my oldest baby's big, innocent blue eyes and her sweet face appeared along side it.
When my Aleigh was born, my entire life changed in the most beautiful, wonderful ways possible. Most parents understand what I mean: I no longer breathed for myself; I breathed for her. And when Abree joined our family, I was amazed to find that my heart could feel fuller and I could be more complete than I already was. I wrapped them both in the protective, safe environment my husband and I have built, and I pushed the gazillion fears every mother has for her children to the back of my mind. I could protect them now, and I would wait to worry about all that was out of my control when they were older.
But what I didn't realize (or, perhaps, just chose not to think about) is no matter how many precautions we take as parents, we can't keep them safe from everything. No matter how hard we try.
In the past year alone, colleges, places of worship, shopping centers, and now elementary schools have become targets for the sick and unstable to unleash their anger and frustration before branding their names in the mass murderers column of American history.
And how do I protect my children from that? Do I avoid church because a religious fanatic whose beliefs differ from mine may choose the place of worship I've chosen to make himself a martyr? Do I keep them away from shopping centers, especially crowded ones, for fear of disgruntled ex-employees? Do I homeschool my children because not even elementary schools are safe anymore?
I've cried for those precious, innocent children who will never experience so much this life has to offer. I've cried for the unsuspecting parents who received the most fearful news. I've cried for those who survived but had the wonder of child innocence stripped from them. I've cried for the teachers, aides, principal who made the ultimate sacrifice to protect the children to whom, as teachers, they had dedicated themselves.
I sometimes wonder what kind of world I have brought my babies into. How do you explain the cruelness and sadness, the hurt and pain that is an inevitable part of the human existence to them? And, inevitably, we all will have to, much sooner than we ever imagined we would.
I want to protect my babies from this cruel world. I want their beautiful smiles to always shine and the tears they shed to be few. I want them to never experience loss, to not have to struggle with understanding and accepting death. But I know how very unrealistic and naive such wants are.
My mother-in-law loves Disney Pixar's Finding Nemo, and we watched it again and again the last time she visited. We were right at the part where Dory and Marlin are in the whale's mouth, when she said to my husband and me, "this is a very important part for mommies and daddies to understand." My husband laughed at his mother, but I adore both her life lessons and Disney for many of the beautiful lessons its characters teach. So I listened. Really listened.
Marlin tells Dory, "I promised I'd never let anything happen to him." And Dory says, "Hmm. That's a funny thing to promise. [. . .] you can't never let anything happen to him. Then, nothing would ever happen to him."
So, as hard as it is for me to admit, I have to let them go into this world and hope I have taught them well enough. I have to let them experience life. I have to let them make their own mistakes and learn and grow and, with hope, do their part to make this world better.
For now, I get to continue to live in my somewhat naive, sheltered world and shower them with love. I get to hold them, hug them, and kiss them. I get to do everything in my power to pad that layer of protection that is a parent's love, that invisible bodysuit parents make just a little thicker every time they encourage or praise or love their little ones.
And I'll continue to hope that everything I've taught them and all the love I've given them is enough to protect them from all the madness, nonsense, and destruction possible in this world, even if I know it's no guarantee - because I think that's part of my responsibility to them as their mother: to teach them that the sadness and cruelty that will seem so dominant when they get older isn't and shouldn't be the norm.
There is still so much that is beautiful, inspiring, and good in this world.
