On Friday, I spent the afternoon at my kids' school watching my 1st grader and his classmates perform their Christmas concert for all of my fellow parents and grandparents. First and Second Graders were singing together, bringing joy into the season. I watched them all, recognizing many of the faces, probably able to name most of them if I really thought long and hard enough.
Also on Friday, in Newtown, Connecticut, 20 five-year olds went to school with the excitement of Christmas being only days away.
I can't even begin to fathom 20 less angelic voices than those that I heard at my school.
Today there are Kindergarten students in Connecticut who had spent the past few months making new friends who should've been friends for life as classmates. Tonight, they're crying wondering why nobody ever told them about these scary, sad days at school.
...because these scary, sad days aren't supposed to happen. That's why.
Last night my 6 year old was puttering around the house getting ready for bed...pj's, bathroom, water...prepping for a slumber party with his older sister. My 6 year old, who for whatever reason has decided to find it a funny joke to never tell his mom that he loves me (I love you Boo! "OK." Aaargh!). My son who will gladly give dad a hug and kiss goodbye but ducks under the covers when I lean in for a goodnight kiss. For whatever reason, my lil' dude came up and smiled an impish little grin at me and said..."I'm ready for my goodnight hug!"
And it turns out I'm not the heartless, uncaring person I've always thought I was. I became a blubbering, emotional wreck while smothering him with his requested hug.
Precisely what this momma needed, and I squeezed him a little tighter than what I probably should have.
Because he let me. And because I could.
And also because there are parents who said goodbye to their children yesterday morning, never thinking that they wouldn't be able to say goodnight to them at the end of this tragic day.