Hi Friend,
When I hear of more children shot to death at school, I cannot help but think of their mothers.
Their mothers: holding the tiny, squirmy baby so they can sleep. Waking up at four in the morning to feed them. Setting them down in their crib and, in the early days, when everything feels so tender and precious and scary and new, leaning in close to listen.
Is he breathing? Is she breathing?
Their mothers, pouring bath water over their soft heads to rinse off the gentle smelling soap.
“My eyes,” the toddler cries in agony. “You got water in my eyes!”
And maybe the mother feels pain, and apologizes. Or maybe she feels annoyed — this is the toddler, after all, who refused to take a bite of their dinner and then dumped it all over the floor. Either way, the next bath, she will pour the water again and she will use her hand as a shield.
A mother is, after all, a kind of shield. She protected her child from the sun, from the cold, from mosquitos and dogs and allergens. From germs. From loud noises. From profanity. From stairs without gates. From too-high playgrounds and too-rough siblings. From too-small things they could choke on. To think! Their mothers cutting all that food into teeny tiny pieces so their babies could learn to eat. Learn to chew. And swallow. And drink from a cup. Their mothers rinsing berries and cutting meat and endlessly washing tiny spoons and straws.
And to think of these mothers hearing the news, hearing the news every mother fears more than any other news, and rushing to the school with only one question, with the only question that has ever mattered.
Is he breathing? Is she breathing?
To say my heart breaks for them is an understatement. My heart breaks for us all.
Joyce