Sandy Hook
I suppose any mom with a mommy blog takes in the Sandy Hook tragedy and realizes she must blog about it, because how can she ignore it?
And then she realizes that she cannot cannot cannot conjure up words that do justice to the depth of evil, sorrow, or horror of what happened in Connecticut on Friday.
That afternoon, in between trying to get my non-napping baby to sleep, I saw a Yahoo news alert about a shooting at a Connecticut school. I sighed and deliberately didn't click. I'm absolutely a stick-your-head-in-the-sand sort of person when it comes to bad crap I can't control. Stuff that's already done.
So, I had no clue of the scope of the shooting. As I was driving to Charlotte's holiday party at school, I talked to Chris and he asked if I had heard. I told him I saw a headline. He told me the body count and who it consisted of: mostly children. And I felt physically ill.
For the next few hours, I was slightly distracted by Charlotte's party, full of oodles of preschoolers blissfully, rightfully ignorant of evil. They drank their organic juice (a rare treat for these kiddos), showed off their baby siblings (Charlotte was one of these), and proudly presented their glitter-clotted art projects and gingerbread creations.
It was precisely how an afternoon for a young child should be: innocent and lively.
After the party, I took Charlotte (and Lorelei) to a park, where Charlotte played with full-fledged gusto. And one point, I looked away from her to readjust Lorelei in my arms. When I looked back up, I couldn't see her. My stomach dropped and I willed all rational thoughts to the front of my mind. She's behind the slide. She's behind the slide. She's behind the slide. WHAT IF SHE'S NOT BEHIND THE SLIDE? There she is. She was behind the slide. I calmed back down.
That night at home, Chris turned on the TV. "I don't want to watch coverage of the shooting," I said. There are people who seek out every heart-wrenching detail of events like these. I am not one of them.
Chris pretty much ignored me and turned on NBC Nightly News's coverage. I sat and watched, nursing Lorelei.
And it was awful. You too have seen the coverage. You know how terrible it is.
So, Chris and I had a good cry. As a parent, the idea of someone--a stranger no less--maliciously and violently killing a young child, and then 19 more of them, plus 6 adults, was just too much for the mind and heart to hold in.
That night, when checking on Charlotte, Chris and I did so together. He tugged up her messy blankets, which jostled her slightly awake. "Sleep next to me," she mumbled, mostly still asleep.
Chris and I glanced at each other across her bed. "Okay," we said simultaneously, and we each laid down on either side of Charlotte for a couple minutes as she immediately fell back to sleep.
Around 4:00 a.m., Lorelei woke up. I quietly nursed her in the dark, thinking of those lost children and the mommies who had done what I was doing at that moment, night after night, the two of them the only ones awake in the house. Holding their babies close, nurturing them, loving them, wondering what the world would have in store for them. Getting up in the middle of the night when an ear infection or stomach bug hit. Rocking and rocking, taking temperatures, fretting. Potty training. First smiles, first steps, first days of school.
It's just too much.
On Sunday morning, our two babies woke up at 5:55 (Lorelei) and 5:58 (Charlotte). I fed Lorelei in bed, and Charlotte claimed her spot in the middle for some cartoon watching while Chris groaned and tried to doze. Charlotte, who has learned how to safely position herself against me when her sister is feeding, eventually nestled in at my side, thumb in her mouth. Sure, it was crowded. I loved every second of it.
On Sunday night, we returned home from the church Christmas party where we had a blast watching Charlotte exude sheer joy at Santa's visit, getting to watch a movie and eat popcorn with the big kids, and receiving some brand new light-up dress-up Cinderella shoes from the big fat man (the mommies sneak gifts into Santa's bag). Our wiped-out girl went to bed. Chris and I then settled in to watch the 49ers vs. Patriots, me nursing Lorelei per usual, and a few minutes into the the game, the President's address at Newtown interrupted it.
The beginning of the speech was touching, and the middle meandered. I guiltily found myself wanting the man to find focus or let us return to the game. Toward the end, though, President Obama's speech found its groove again, and I felt myself tearing up, my heart breaking for the umpteenth time. Then, appropriately without warning, he started to list the names of the children lost on Friday morning.
The first name out of his mouth, spoken with utter deference to the preciousness of this little girl's soul?
"Charlotte."
I was not prepared for this. I gasped, cried out some garbled sound I couldn't even recognize as my own voice, and absolutely lost it. Chris came into the family room to see what was the matter (he had been trying to follow the game in the office), and I explained what had happened. He nodded, saying that a similar jolt had occurred for him that morning at church, when the pastor listed the children, again beginning with Charlotte. I didn't know about this, as I had worked in the nursery that morning, missing the service. The name had rattled Chris, too.
Throughout the rest of the evening, the President's voice saying "Charlotte" repeatedly echoed. I cognitively knew that this wasn't my Charlotte. I told myself, it's just phonics and sounds strung together. Just a word. And yet, him saying the most familiar name in the world to me, listing a little Charlotte among the dead, kept emotionally punching me all night long. I blubbered throughout the 49ers game and eventually stopped watching. I couldn't make the President's voice stop. I was already mourning those little lives lost, and I was absolutely unprepared for the President's list and that name. It blindsided me, hitting me with almost supernatural force. I wanted to throw up.
"You know her parents were just like us," I told Chris. "You know they said a billion times, 'No, Charlotte,' 'Sit down, Charlotte,' 'Charlotte, where are your shoes?' You know that they saw in her a quintessential Charlotte-ness that they absolutely adored. That they'll never be able to articulate to anybody who didn't know her."
"Yeah," Chris said quietly. "I know."
This morning, my Charlotte emerged from her bedroom, rosy-cheeked from cozy sleep and snuggly in her lavender snowflake jammies. Lorelei slept through the night, mercifully, and we breathed a sigh of relief when we saw her wiggle via the video monitor. Both of my girls, safe another night.
And also this morning, I did something I typically don't do: I deliberately sought details. About Charlotte.
The Charlotte killed was Charlotte Bacon. She loved animals, wearing boots, and the color pink.
And then she realizes that she cannot cannot cannot conjure up words that do justice to the depth of evil, sorrow, or horror of what happened in Connecticut on Friday.
That afternoon, in between trying to get my non-napping baby to sleep, I saw a Yahoo news alert about a shooting at a Connecticut school. I sighed and deliberately didn't click. I'm absolutely a stick-your-head-in-the-sand sort of person when it comes to bad crap I can't control. Stuff that's already done.
So, I had no clue of the scope of the shooting. As I was driving to Charlotte's holiday party at school, I talked to Chris and he asked if I had heard. I told him I saw a headline. He told me the body count and who it consisted of: mostly children. And I felt physically ill.
For the next few hours, I was slightly distracted by Charlotte's party, full of oodles of preschoolers blissfully, rightfully ignorant of evil. They drank their organic juice (a rare treat for these kiddos), showed off their baby siblings (Charlotte was one of these), and proudly presented their glitter-clotted art projects and gingerbread creations.
It was precisely how an afternoon for a young child should be: innocent and lively.
After the party, I took Charlotte (and Lorelei) to a park, where Charlotte played with full-fledged gusto. And one point, I looked away from her to readjust Lorelei in my arms. When I looked back up, I couldn't see her. My stomach dropped and I willed all rational thoughts to the front of my mind. She's behind the slide. She's behind the slide. She's behind the slide. WHAT IF SHE'S NOT BEHIND THE SLIDE? There she is. She was behind the slide. I calmed back down.
That night at home, Chris turned on the TV. "I don't want to watch coverage of the shooting," I said. There are people who seek out every heart-wrenching detail of events like these. I am not one of them.
Chris pretty much ignored me and turned on NBC Nightly News's coverage. I sat and watched, nursing Lorelei.
And it was awful. You too have seen the coverage. You know how terrible it is.
So, Chris and I had a good cry. As a parent, the idea of someone--a stranger no less--maliciously and violently killing a young child, and then 19 more of them, plus 6 adults, was just too much for the mind and heart to hold in.
That night, when checking on Charlotte, Chris and I did so together. He tugged up her messy blankets, which jostled her slightly awake. "Sleep next to me," she mumbled, mostly still asleep.
Chris and I glanced at each other across her bed. "Okay," we said simultaneously, and we each laid down on either side of Charlotte for a couple minutes as she immediately fell back to sleep.
Around 4:00 a.m., Lorelei woke up. I quietly nursed her in the dark, thinking of those lost children and the mommies who had done what I was doing at that moment, night after night, the two of them the only ones awake in the house. Holding their babies close, nurturing them, loving them, wondering what the world would have in store for them. Getting up in the middle of the night when an ear infection or stomach bug hit. Rocking and rocking, taking temperatures, fretting. Potty training. First smiles, first steps, first days of school.
It's just too much.
On Sunday morning, our two babies woke up at 5:55 (Lorelei) and 5:58 (Charlotte). I fed Lorelei in bed, and Charlotte claimed her spot in the middle for some cartoon watching while Chris groaned and tried to doze. Charlotte, who has learned how to safely position herself against me when her sister is feeding, eventually nestled in at my side, thumb in her mouth. Sure, it was crowded. I loved every second of it.
On Sunday night, we returned home from the church Christmas party where we had a blast watching Charlotte exude sheer joy at Santa's visit, getting to watch a movie and eat popcorn with the big kids, and receiving some brand new light-up dress-up Cinderella shoes from the big fat man (the mommies sneak gifts into Santa's bag). Our wiped-out girl went to bed. Chris and I then settled in to watch the 49ers vs. Patriots, me nursing Lorelei per usual, and a few minutes into the the game, the President's address at Newtown interrupted it.
The beginning of the speech was touching, and the middle meandered. I guiltily found myself wanting the man to find focus or let us return to the game. Toward the end, though, President Obama's speech found its groove again, and I felt myself tearing up, my heart breaking for the umpteenth time. Then, appropriately without warning, he started to list the names of the children lost on Friday morning.
The first name out of his mouth, spoken with utter deference to the preciousness of this little girl's soul?
"Charlotte."
I was not prepared for this. I gasped, cried out some garbled sound I couldn't even recognize as my own voice, and absolutely lost it. Chris came into the family room to see what was the matter (he had been trying to follow the game in the office), and I explained what had happened. He nodded, saying that a similar jolt had occurred for him that morning at church, when the pastor listed the children, again beginning with Charlotte. I didn't know about this, as I had worked in the nursery that morning, missing the service. The name had rattled Chris, too.
Throughout the rest of the evening, the President's voice saying "Charlotte" repeatedly echoed. I cognitively knew that this wasn't my Charlotte. I told myself, it's just phonics and sounds strung together. Just a word. And yet, him saying the most familiar name in the world to me, listing a little Charlotte among the dead, kept emotionally punching me all night long. I blubbered throughout the 49ers game and eventually stopped watching. I couldn't make the President's voice stop. I was already mourning those little lives lost, and I was absolutely unprepared for the President's list and that name. It blindsided me, hitting me with almost supernatural force. I wanted to throw up.
"You know her parents were just like us," I told Chris. "You know they said a billion times, 'No, Charlotte,' 'Sit down, Charlotte,' 'Charlotte, where are your shoes?' You know that they saw in her a quintessential Charlotte-ness that they absolutely adored. That they'll never be able to articulate to anybody who didn't know her."
"Yeah," Chris said quietly. "I know."
This morning, my Charlotte emerged from her bedroom, rosy-cheeked from cozy sleep and snuggly in her lavender snowflake jammies. Lorelei slept through the night, mercifully, and we breathed a sigh of relief when we saw her wiggle via the video monitor. Both of my girls, safe another night.
And also this morning, I did something I typically don't do: I deliberately sought details. About Charlotte.
The Charlotte killed was Charlotte Bacon. She loved animals, wearing boots, and the color pink.
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