Last Friday felt like the end of the world. I heard a bit of the news before heading to the gym for a lunchtime workout, but there, on the treadmill, I looked up and the CBS was reporting live from Connecticut. Even with the sound off, the horror and worry in the faces of parents as they raced to Sandy Hook Elementary School spoke volumes. Tears sprang to my eyes and I had to look away.
Like everyone else I know, I spent the afternoon clicking back and forth from my work to news websites, hungry for details and at the same time sickened by everything I'd read.
I could write more, about how all weekend I kept the news off, and struggled to find the right words to explain to my 3rd grader what had happened. I could talk about the petition I signed asking the White House to make gun control a priority. I could tell you why I refuse to be afraid to send my kids to elementary school. About how intellectually I know they're statistically more likely to die in a car accident, with Mom at the wheel, than as the victim of a shooting rampage; but the fact that there's a any chance of being gunned down in homeroom makes my blood boil.
But I'm not going to write about those things. Instead, I'm going to tell you that my neighbor had a baby girl on Friday, December 14th. Baby Claire came home on Sunday, and this evening Ada and I stopped by with a baby gift and a batch of chocolate chip cookies. We chatted for a few minutes, but the baby was nursing, their toddler son was finishing dinner and I didn't want to intrude. So I came home, bathed Ada and we snuggled on her bed with a new Ramona book.
"Look Mom, my toes," Ada said, spreading her toes apart like a monkey, "I can make my feet like Claire's. Only her feet are so small. So soft. So perfect."