Saturday, December 15, 2012

how i feel

like every other parent yesterday, all i wanted to do was get my hands on my babies.
they were sleeping when i heard 28 people had been shot in an elementary school in connecticut.
20 of those people were children between the ages of 5 and 10.
i fell on my couch and started sobbing.
it is gut wrenching to think that 27 parents will never again hug their child from such a senseless and incomprehensible act.

i ache for brothers and sisters who got out of the car mad at their sibling.

but mostly, my mind kept going to the parents who were having a bad day.
those parents whose children were getting yelled at for running around the house, instead of eating breakfast.
the parents who wrestled to get their children in their car seats.
the parents who couldn't get to school fast enough.
because they had so much to do.
because they were over the fighting.

the parents who dropped their babies off, relished in the silence and promised a do over once the kids got home from school.
i thought long and hard and tried to convince myself that wouldn't be me.
but i wasn't able to convince myself.
i knew there was a chance.
and that is an extremely tough pill to swallow.

i know there is probably more than one parent that will be trying to fill that silence for the rest of their life.
my body aches for you.

the thought of people arriving to sandy hook elementary, waiting to wrap their body around a child that will never walk out those doors is unimaginable.
it makes me physically ill.

i pray for every one of those parents.
i pray through tears. through a grief i cannot begin to understand.
i pray they feel my love. i pray they feel your love.
i pray they feel my hugs.

i pray they remember every single thing about their children.
i hope they forever remember the smell of their skin.

i hope they can forever hear their laugh.
the big laugh.
the laugh that forces a child to toss their head back and make their mouths fly wide open.

i hope they remember the special way their babies said certain words.

i pray they will forever be able to close their eyes and see how every single hair fell on their child's face.

matt came home early.
we talked about how our twins could have been in in the same class.
we would have lost both of them.

i think they knew we needed them.
we scooped them up and squeezed them so tight.
i traced every outline of their tiny little bodies.
i touched every part of their face thousands of times.
i explained to them how i love them so much it hurts.
i drank them in with long, slow drawn out sips.
i watched every move.

i couldn't answer their questions without crying.
i paid attention to the way they said every single word.
i listened to their different intonations and committed them to memory.

i put them to bed with a heavy heart and a broken spirit.

i woke up at 1 and couldn't sleep.
i was aching for one of my babies to wake up.
to give me a reason to go hold them.

stella cried and my heart lurched. she knew i needed her.
as her limp flour sack of a body molded perfectly in to mine, we rocked.
we rocked to music for what felt like hours.
i know she felt my chest convulsing, i know she could feel my tears, but she didn't make a sound.
she laid there and let me love her.
heart to heart and cheek to cheek.

even though we will never know why, i take comfort knowing this country is crying together.
in times like these we are a family.
differing opinions fall by the wayside and we are united.

all we can do is keep breathing.
keep putting one foot in front of the other.

keep practicing peace on earth, good will to men.