The Ugly Question

So.

Anyone who knows me knows that I rarely (if ever, actually) discuss anything truly serious on this blog. It has always been littered with comical tales of single parenthood, and whimsical, day-dreamy notions about romance. Even my Facebook page does not delve beyond my goofy inner-monologue and coffee addiction. Light. Fluffy. Geared towards anyone desiring a grin or a giggle. That's pretty much it.

I rarely touch on the subject of my job on Facebook, and have never done so on this blog, because with all of the confidentiality clauses and what-not, the stories of my work day must, understandably, remain protected (which is a darn shame, because man, have I got stories). Friday, and the indescribable events that transpired in Connecticut, changed all of that.

I learned of the news during a quick break in my work day. I like to check Time or MSN on the computer, to get my daily news scoop, because I do not watch television (honestly-- the antenna is not hooked up-- I haven't watched network television in almost two years). So, I was horrified, as I sat inside of an elementary school, to learn that another one, across the country, had just been gunned down earlier in the day.

For those of you who only know me through the post I made on Facebook, this is my third year as a paraprofessional for an elementary school in Oklahoma. I love my job. Love my job. I am a 34-year old single mother to three kids, ages 8, 8, and 6. They attend the same school at which I am employed. You may be wondering, "Okay. Seriously. Why are you telling us this?" Well, the fact that I work at the same school where my children attend class is what started that Facebook post in motion.

I am a pretty calm person. It takes a lot to get me stirred-up. However, as more details filtered out of Connecticut, and out onto the internet, a gut-wrenching feeling came over me.

My children are on this campus. My children. What if this happened here? What if I couldn't get to them? How could I get to them? Wait... You couldn't get to them. You have students to take care of. You couldn't leave them. They are your responsibility. Their parents would need you. They depend on you.

It was the most horrible, nauseating feeling I have ever experienced as a parent. Ever. I felt like I was "choosing" other peoples' kids over my own. I felt guilty. Helpless. I didn't want to trust someone else to protect my kids. Those are my kids. My babies. Nobody could ever protect them as well as I could. Nobody. I'm their mom. They're my babies.

I was confronted with the reality that I would have to have faith that my childrens' teachers would protect them at all costs. All costs. Anyone who is a parent knows that we all feel like we know what is best for our kids-- that we could protect them or provide for them, better than anyone else on the planet. It's like biological parental law. Even though I know my kids' teachers (and know them well), I fought with myself all day, telling myself, "You have to trust them. You have to. There is no choice."

Coming to this realization forced me to consider what all of the parents outside of the school system do every day, in regards to their childrens' education. They put their child on the bus, or drop them at the school's front door, believing that they will go inside, connect the dots of their school day, and come back home again. Prior to Friday, I had never really stopped to consider that these parents must either have an enormous amount of trust in us, or that they just don't give it much thought. If one thing is certain as of Friday, I believe that the trust is there, and now the thought is there, too, and this realization created a deeper sense of responsibility within me, in regards to my students.

Of course, I am not the only staff member on campus who has children who attend school there. Lots of us do, and I know we were all thinking and feeling the same thing. We all looked sick. Pale. Bleary-eyed. Distracted. There was an unspoken glance of understanding exchanged between all of us as we passed each other in eerily-silent hallways. We were all thinking about our kids. Biological and student alike.

We were all asking ourselves the question, "What would I do if?...." It hung in the air like a ghost.

Later in the day, I passed by my son's class, as they were waiting in the hall to take a bathroom break. His teacher and I are good friends, and we both just looked tired. However, there was my son, full of  "sunshine and rainbows", beaming up at me, waving his hand frantically by his hip, trying to conceal his excitement that "Mommy was walking by". As I passed his teacher, I whispered, "God. I just want to hug him. I want to hug him so bad," to which tearily squeaked out the reply, "You can." I held back, telling her I would cry if I did. The boy's in third grade. He didn't need his mom turning into a puddle in front of his friends. I kept walking, fighting off tears as I did.

I fight off tears just sitting here typing this.

I remember where I was when Oklahoma City got bombed. I was in my English class, my junior year in high school. I remember where I was when the World Trade Center was hit. I was recently engaged and in my first year of grad school. I remember where I was when the tsunami hit South Asia. It was the day after my boys' first Christmas. Now, I will remember this. I will remember seeing my son in the hallway, grinning from ear-to-ear outside of the boys' restroom, and me wanting to hug his neck like crazy.

As the day went on, we were all informed of heightened security measures. Parents were contacted. The end of the school day couldn't come fast enough. Students got extra hugs as they walked out the door-- the students that had not been checked out early by their parents, that is. When it was all said and done, you could see small groups of staff, pooling in the halls, as if we were all gathering breath from each others' presence and understanding. We could exhale what we had been holding in. All. Day. Long.

Please understand that I am not trying to over-dramaticize the atmosphere that existed in our school on Friday, or in any way try to compare it to what those at Sandy Hook Elementary were feeling that day. There is no comparison. In order to understand why I made my post on Friday, it is important to know what I saw and felt, and what inspired it.

Oddly enough, I left school a little later than normal on Friday, and took my babies home, grateful for once to have all three of them in the backseat, bickering with each other. Although I was hoping to get through the weekend without having to discuss the tragedy with them, those observant little monkeys noticed the flags at half-staff, and choosing my words very carefully, I let them know that something bad had happened, and that a lot of people died.

Please. Please do not make your mother talk about this anymore. I can't make you guys understand, and I am sad that, one day, you will understand, and then you will feel the way I do now.

My youngest (my daughter), ever the fan of "good versus evil", was the only one asking questions:

Did they catch the bad guy, Mommy?

Yes, honey. Yes they did.

What happened to him?

He's dead now, honey.

Did the police kill him?

Honey, I don't know. What do you guys want for a snack when we get home? (Please, please let me change the subject).

We got home, and I wanted to collapse. They gathered their snacks and ran upstairs to watch a movie they had picked out at the Redbox, and I proceeded to unpack their backpacks, pet the dogs, and consider what to cook for dinner. Despite my attempts to shove it all aside now that I was home (no television to remind me of it all), I couldn't. I needed to purge.

I do not enter into political or religious debate, with anyone. Period. When I need to express myself, I write, take pictures, or paint. I felt like writing something. However, sensitive situations such as these require a lot of care and tact, and I tend to shy away from drama. I am not going to post pictures of angel wings with victims' names attached. I am not going to post about gun control. I am not going to post about religion in public schools. It's just not who I am. So, this is what I wrote:

So, I rarely "soapbox" on FB, but the whole ordeal in Connecticut has brought a lot of perspective in regards to what my co-workers and I do all day. To parents who aren't educators, this may be hard to understand.

Five days a week, we teach your kids. That means we educate your kids. Play with your kids. Discipline your kids. Joke with your kids. Console your kids. Praise your kids. Question yo...ur kids. Beat our heads up against a wall about your kids. Gush over your kids. Laugh with your kids. Worry about your kids. Keep an eye on your kids. Learn about your kids. Invest in your kids. Protect your kids. Love your kids.

We would all take a bullet for your kids.

It's nowhere in our job description. It isn't covered in the employee handbook. It isn't cited on our contracts. But we would all do it. So, yes-- please hug your kids tonight-- really, really tight. But on Monday, if you see your kids' teacher, please hug them, too. Thanks.

 

I write what I know, and what I knew on Friday was that, upon hearing about what happened in Connecticut, we all added "soldier" to our stack of hats we wear throughout the school day. None of my co-workers said those things to me on Friday. None of them had to. It was written on our faces. We had all been confronted with the question of, "Are you ready to take a bullet for your students?" It isn't a fun question to ask yourself. It's just not.

I spend 90% of my existence surrounded by children, ages 4-10. It's awesome, and we all get to be a bit of a kid ourselves when we work with them. I wish to God we lived in my son's world of sunshine and rainbows, where everyone has a puppy to play with, takes hot air balloon rides all day long, and eats ice cream for dinner. I really do. But we don't. We live in a world where someone can destroy our bubble without any real rhyme or reason.

I did not write what I wrote in order to bring attention to "teacher appreciation". The whole idea is just tacky and selfish, and I am neither. I, for one, have never felt under-appreciated at my job, by the parents or the staff. I asked people to hug their kids' teachers. That's it. Why? Because on Friday, our job description met an unspoken change. We were confronted with that ugly question, and I felt like we not only needed the emotional support, but that it would help all of us to know, through a simple hug, that the parents trust us with their kids, regardless of the circumstances.

And yes, I hugged my son's teacher on Monday morning. Hard.