The Perfect Storm

You know those moments when you insist that someone must be filming you?-- That you are an unwilling participant in some sort of sick, "candid camera" documentary, made to mock the various crises of everyday life? Well, I would say that this afternoon was one of those moments-- if it had lasted but a moment-- but no, it snowballed into a full-fledged after school "experience".

So, this entire week carries with it more "shit to do" than should technically be allowed by law, and this afternoon was no exception. The weather alone was enough to make me start hissing like a feral cat. I love the rain. It's all soothing and quiet and romantic and delightful. I also don't hate the cold. It allows me to indulge in what I consider to be the better-half of my wardrobe. However, when the two are combined, they create a force so unwelcome and evil that I literally do nearly bare my teeth at the air as it whips mist around my face. I. Loathe. It.

Yes, the weather had already put me in an unusually sour mood, because all I really wanted to do as a result of the atmospheric conditions was curl up in my footie pajamas with Mighty Mo, and maybe watch a Hugh Jackman movie. Instead, I had several hours of non-stop errands and appointments after school to "look forward to". Why????? Why can't I just go home???? Can't I just postpone until tomorrow? Pretty please? In the words of Grumpy Cat, "No."

Sigh.

So, in the midst of the still-steady rain, I corralled the kids into the car, or tried to, anyway. What is it about kids and puddles? Is there some sort of weird gravitational force that automatically draws them to even the tiniest of puddles, so that they may stomp in it? I mean, really? I had absolutely no desire whatsoever to growl at them in the parking lot (which I wound up doing anyway), but I kind of despise being cold and wet, not to mention the fact that my biggest pet peeve in life is having a soaked hem on my pants. Mission accomplished. You are such an idiot for not wearing skinny pants and boots today. What were you thinking? I mean, honestly, Hill? When was the last time you actually wore pants that weren't fitted around the ankle, and you chose today to wear trousers with a straight-leg? You should seriously consider punching yourself in the face for that one.

Awesome! We are in the car and we are on our way! Miracle! Step one: Bank. Step two: Broken Arrow Library. Step three: Salon. Oddly enough, the kids were all quite quiet on the way to the bank. I am so used to the incredibly aggravating teasing, taunting, poking, prodding exchange that takes place almost daily in my back seat, that the fact that they weren't attempting to kill each other was quite noteworthy. They didn't even pester me for suckers at the bank drive-thru. That, in and of itself, was epic, and had I been on my toes, it would have been the first sign that something was amiss-- that the "perfect storm" was brewing.

We methodically made our way out to South Broken Arrow. Even though I grew up out there, I literally cannot stomach being that far outside of my safe little Downtown bubble. It makes my neck tense up, and sometimes, I snarl a little. Hissing. Growling. Snarling. God, I sound like a horrible human being, but when you combine the rain and the cold and the inability to go home when I wanted to, with going way out to a part of town that just makes me want to go home even more, the world is fortunate that I didn't spontaneously sprout a tail, wings, and scales, and start breathing fire. Or turn into Grumpy Cat. I would never do that, though. My Tami needs that alter-ego more than I do.

So. Yes. South B.A. Sweet Baby Jesus. The only redeeming thing about our journey out there was the fact that we were going to the library so I could secure a copy of a DVD that my student had so endearingly begged me to get for his presentation on Friday. I can't say no to him. Well, not often anyway. The joy on his little face would be worth my heinous trip, in the cold and rain, out to South Broken Arrow. I knew that. Still, I wanted to make it as painless as possible, and barked at the kids to hurry as we exited the car and went inside. I knew they would be tempted to explore, since we had never been to that particular branch, but I gave them strict and stern orders to stick with me as we made a beeline for the Children's DVDs.

I located what I needed almost immediately, and as we made our way towards the counter, Gabe paused and whimpered a little. He had complained of a headache after school, and seemed pretty tired, but this whimper was not a "tired" whimper. I knew this whimper. It was a whimper that was always combined with this wide-eyed look of complete and utter fear, that could only mean one thing. Impending vomit.

No.

"Gabe? What's wrong, buddy?"

"I don't feel so good."

"Ummmm, okay. Do you think you're going to get sick?"

"Yeahhhhhhh...."

"Okay, well then we need to find a bathroom. Quick."

But it was too late. He turned his back to me, and the next thing I heard was puke splattering onto the tile floor. I hung my head, and let out a sigh that was basically just Mom Code for, "Why me??? Why now???" And with that, just as methodically as I had mapped out the rest of my afternoon, I systematically faced the situation at hand, but not before Josh and Quincy both announced their disgust with what their brother had just managed to do, in what they practically consider a house of worship.

"Really, Gabe? Really??? Now we're not going to get to go to swim lessons! Ughhhhhhh!"

It's at moments like these when, as a parent, you must choose your battles. Do you get an inch from your daughter's face and give her your best "You Are SO Going To Regret Saying That" face, or do you just focus on the regurgitated snack that is now pooled on the library floor? Well, in my case, you tackle the issue of bodily fluids first. It's just the polite thing to do. I took the walk of shame to the circulation desk, where a woman about my age politely asked if I needed assistance, and was then forced to explain that my son had just blown chunks all over the floor. Such a lovely thing to explain, and her face reflected it. Bless her heart. It was her first week on the job. She didn't even know what the clean-up procedure entailed. Thankfully, she had a good sense of humor, as I tried to lighten the mood by congratulating her on being "initiated" into her new position. That still didn't keep her from pumping obscene amounts of sanitizer into her hands, over and over, though.

Yeah. I basically wanted to die at that point, but our day wasn't over.

Whyyyyyyyy is it still raining? Throw me a bone! We dashed out to the car, where I shot a text to the kids' dad, informing him of our disgusting little incident, since he was due to pick them up in less than an hour. I also thought it would be a fun time to crack a joke about the experience on Facebook. I mean, if you can't have a sense of humor about this stuff, then you're just not cut out for parenting, right? As we made our way out of the parking lot, and out onto the rain-slick street, my phone started erupting with texts, and then I was met with that all-too-familiar-and-highly-unwelcome whimper from the back seat.

Oh God. Seriously? Not in my car. NOT in my car. Please, Jesus.

I begged Gabe to hold on. I begged as I assured him that I would find something for him to use as a puke bucket, and attempted to get into the left-turn lane at the same time. Every expletive known to man raced through my mind (and probably came out of my mouth-- I honestly can't remember), as I frantically dug through a giant blue plastic Ikea bag in the front passenger seat, looking for something he could use, other than my floorboard.

Yes! His lunch box! Brilliant!

If you look up the word "improvise" in the dictionary, I am fairly certain that you will see a picture Gabe looking green and panicked in the back seat, and one of me tugging the zipper of his Stitch lunch box open, and flinging it backwards into his lap, as I made a left-hand turn in the pouring rain, and then hearing his vomit explode into it, just in time. You would also hear his siblings screaming at the top of their lungs in absolute horror at what was taking place.

It was a thing of beauty.

As PukeFest 2013 continued behind me, I reassured him that I was going to find a place to pull over, and immediately pulled into a gas station parking lot. I pulled up along the grass and briefly rested my forehead against the steering wheel, praying for death, as I had to be at the salon in approximately eighteen minutes. There was no way I was going to cancel. I had been looking forward to getting my hair sheared off for over a week, and a little throw-up wasn't going to get in my way. I got out of the car, too dumbfounded to even care about grabbing my umbrella, and walked around to the passenger side of the car. Gabe was pinned in the middle of the back seat, so I instructed him pass the lunch box to me, so I could dump it out, and subsequently rinse it, using what was left inside of one of their water bottles.

Well, that was how it was supposed to go down, anyway. However, we experienced some technical difficulties.

I grabbed the lunch box with one hand, which was just about the most careless move ever, considering the stupid thing is made of flexible material, and needless to say, disaster followed. The bottom of the lunch box collapsed under the weight of whatever came out of his little digestive tract, and most of it spilled out across his brother's lap and onto my arm and hand as I pulled it out of the car. Josh erupted in screams of terror, flailing his hands everywhere, tears streaming down his face as he began to hyperventilate over what had just happened to him. You would have honestly thought that someone had just lit him on fire, and I kind of think he would have preferred that to having his brother's half-digested food dumped all over his pants. I just sort of stood there, in the rain, staring off towards the traffic in the intersection, taking a deep breath, rapidly blinking my eyes, and wishing that I could just walk out there, so someone would accidentally run me over. It would be a quick death. I wouldn't feel a thing. It would be so easy...I couldn't even really be bothered to be all that concerned about the bits of puke that were now running down my arm, as I heard poor Gabe muttering embarrassed apologies from the center of the back seat.

Why on Earth am I starting to find this funny? It is so over-the-top ridiculous that it can only really be explained as some kind of cosmic joke. Let's see how much unforeseen b.s. we can conjure up for Hill today, and see what happens!

But, I did chuckle to myself. How could I not? I had just dumped one brother's vomit into the other brother's lap. After he had just thrown-up at the library. And still had puke all over my own hand. As I stood in the rain. At a gas station. In the freezing cold. In God-forsaken South Broken Arrow. And yet, by some miracle, my methodical instincts persevered, and I quietly procured a half-filled water bottle from the front seat, removed the lid, and rinsed the lunch box, as well as my arm.

Oh, and for all of those people who like to make fun of those of us who keep sanitizer handy, this is why we have it. So there. Next time you have puke on your arm, don't come crying to me.

Josh was still clearly scarred for life, shrieking and hysterical, until I promised him that he could change pants when we got to the salon. Yes, the only thing that was working in my favor at that point was that I had an extra change of clothes in the car. In the meantime, my phone kept blowing up, so I paused to answer the abundance of questions about Gabe, school tomorrow, substitutes, hair appointments, and offers of help.

We made it to the salon without further incident, where the kids were shockingly well-behaved. I have never been so grateful for that in my life, especially since that one little half-hour every four-weeks is usually the most painful experience I have as a single mother. There are few things I dread more than taking them to my hair appointments, because I am trapped in a chair being groomed, unable to string them up by their toenails when they misbehave, and they know it. Quincy actually had the audacity to hatefully hiss at me in the mirror during one appointment, and she is lucky she is still alive for that little display. So yeah, I am accustomed to the absolute worst they can throw at me, the minute I sit down and have the cape wrapped around my shoulders. I am not sure I could have handled it at that point if they had engaged in their usual behavior, or that they would have made it out of the salon alive. Even the fact that I was finally getting relief from my shaggy hair with a delightful new 'do would not have caused their lives to be spared. I think they must have known it, too. Smart kids.

I just wanted to go HOME. So. Bad. Instead, I had a few annoyingly-necessary errands to run once I dropped the kids at their dad's house (he was detained and could not pick them up, as we had originally planned). Upon getting the kids out of the car, I noticed that my back seat had fallen victim to PukeFest 2013, and that my "night off" was now going to be filled with not only errands, but shampooing the upholstery-- in the rain-- and cold-- instead of curling up in my pj's with Mo and Hugh Jackman. At this point, I was really starting to regret my self-imposed work-week rule of "no alcohol". A little vodka and grapefruit would have made for the perfect trifecta of pure awesome on a dreary winter night. Sigh.

Never the less, I embarked on my errands, but not before grabbing a quick bite to eat. Let me just say that you know you're, like, Mom Of Steel when your car wreaks of kiddie-vomit, and it still doesn't deter you from eating something from the drive-thru. True story. After gulping down my meal, I began to slowly feel the adrenaline from the last few hours drift away. I had managed to survive. Suddenly, even as I lined up a substitute to cover my spot at work, and rearranged a calendar that already has me going cross-eyed, I felt sort of lucky. Lucky. And calm. Even with all that had happened. And just like that, the aggravated, pelting rain of the afternoon's many disasters had morphed into a wave of large, sticky, quiet snowflakes, and even with being absolutely blown away by how completely preposterous my afternoon had been, something as simple as rippling sheets of blowing snow was all I needed in order to quiet down, too.

1813 Versus 2013

So, I'm reading this book-- "Me and Mr. Darcy" by Alexandra Potter. Long story short, it's about a woman who is my age, who works in a bookstore in New York City and holds every man she dates up to "Mr. Darcy" standards. It's a fluffy little paperback, which has been fairly enjoyable, save for the fact that the author completely (and purposely) plagiarizes one of the greatest love stories ever written. Oh, that and the fact that she justifies the idea of weighing every real-life man against the one guy who drips with more swagger than any other fella in literature (sorry, Christian Grey), which is only mildly unrealistic (rolling my eyes). The man does not exist (saaaaaaaadly). I've looked. Okay, I haven't-- but maybe I ought to. The most reliable man in my life weighs roughly twelve pounds, is hairier than the dickens, and has an under bite that is only exaggerated by a slight snaggletooth. Something tells me I need to aim a little higher than that.

What does this have to do with this particular blog? Well, here is this character-- Mr. Darcy-- this "ideal man"-- and he is brought before his audience in a time when courtship was incredibly different than it is today. Letters, not e-mails. Poetry, not texts. Men actually came to your house-- they didn't just "show up" someplace because they saw you "check in" on Facebook. And back then, you could go months without corresponding or even seeing them. You may even live a day's travel away from your love interest. Seems kind of tragic, actually, but I guess that's because it goes against what we are accustomed to here in the 21st century. Thanks to technology, we are a society of little (if any) patience (or privacy).

So, my question is: Does technology make today's relationships easier, or harder?

Computers. iPhones. Social networks. Do they hurt or help us? Honestly? Stop to consider it (because I certainly have), or I wouldn't have started scribbling this down in a worn-out spiral notebook, drinking a bottomless cup of coffee at 10:30 p.m. (which, from the taste of it, came from the restaurant's dinner rush). Whatever. I am a resilient breed. Nobody ever died from hours-old Folgers (or have they?....) Okay, sorry. You know how it goes with me sometimes-- I fly off somewhere towards Never-Neverland-- "second star to right and straight on til morning,"-- but I'm coming back around now. Ready? Awesome. Here we go.

Convenience. We thrive off of it. Instant gratification. We pay our bills online. We use GPS, and its creepy, condescending, phone-sexy voice to guide us to new destinations. Hell, we don't even have to get out of our cars to get a meal. Gift cards enable us to put as little thought as possible into giving a gift. E-cards eliminate the experience of actually mailing something to someone. It's all pretty sad. Sure, it saves us time, but whatever happened to good, old-fashioned effort?-- In regards to anything? The level of "convenience" that has come about as a result of all of our technological advancements has, without surprise, filtered down to the dating scene.

Online dating-- and heaven forbid-- speed dating.  The name alone implies convenience and (in my opinion) complete and utter laziness.

       Hi. My name is So-n-So. I am going to spend a whopping 120-seconds assessing

       whether or not we are "meant to be", because I am really just too busy and

       self-involved to spend more than two minutes getting to know you.

I have never done (nor would I ever do) the whole speed-dating scene, so it may seem unfair for me to attack the process, but come on. The concept just kills me. It's plain lazy. Mr. Darcy would have never tried speed-dating. Ever. Elizabeth Bennett would've scoffed at the notion as well (although her idiot sisters would've pounced on the idea). Back in those days, men (and women) took their time. They invested time and thought when it came to courtship, and as a result, we have these tales of real romance that have stood the test of time. I realize that these are fictitious accounts of Jane Austen, but this type of dating was customary for the time, and here we are, a couple of hundred years later (Pride and Prejudice actually turns 200 this coming year), still starry-eyed and dreamy over the Darcy/Bennett romance, wishing it would show its face in present day form.

Fast-forward to (nearly) 2013, and you can practically hand-select your date from a computerized list of faces and names that "meet your criteria". Non-smoker. Loves dogs. Active. Enjoys the symphony and long walks on the beach.-- and all that crap. Really? Am I the only one who is saddened by this? I have had several friends defend the process, and even know couples who met online who are now married and have children, but I remain unconvinced. You are asked to fill out a "profile" about yourself. What is this? A job interview? It should be more natural, and yet, because it is "more convenient" we have begun to literally manufacture relationships through these processes. We have made romance synthetic. It has become plastic. Certainly not what Jane Austen had in mind, and yet women wonder why they can't find their "Mr. Darcy".-- because he doesn't have an online dating profile, that's why.

He also didn't strictly correspond through e-mail. Think about it. Without much time or thought, you can tap-tap-tap, click "send", and satisfy your communication requirement for your relationship. The object of your affection can be the recipient of your thoughts and feelings as often as you would like. As a result of this, yes correspondence may become more frequent, but does it also have the tendency to become less meaningful? In Darcy's day, he didn't have the opportunity to pop off an e-mail on a whim. No, he had to take time to think about what he wanted to say, in a letter (no backspace key, mind you) and God knows, with as painstaking as it is to use a quill and parchment, that guy sure as hell didn't want to have to start the whole letter over because he changed his mind about what he wanted to say. That would suck. No, back then, people had to exercise real thought and sincerity in how they pursued relationships. No two-line e-mails. No "LOL"s. No empty text messages. Sentiments were heartfelt and the recipient knew it. I am not saying that e-mails and text messages don't help us to some extent when it comes to building relationships-- they do. There is a certain element of safety and confidence that exists when you have a digital barrier in place to protect your pride. There is also less agony in awaiting a response than back in Austen's day. Imagine waiting a month to hear from someone? Given how we live, we get antsy if we have to wait an hour for a response from someone. Love and commitment and attraction were truly tested back then-- a sort of "survival of the fittest" approach. If you could hold out and be patient, you could be rewarded with something lasting. Talk about resolve-- it adds a whole new layer to the concept of "pining for someone" (geez, I love that word-- too much). Instead, we have a world filled with quick, easy, impersonal contact, and it makes me wonder if it contributes to the fact that real love stories seem to be becoming an endangered species.

Now, there are many who would argue that, without modern-day technology, it would be next to impossible to actually meet someone these days. Today's society is one of chaotic, fast-paced lives. I am not entirely disagreeing with that. Technology does help, but what takes place between two people, beyond that point, as a result of technology, troubles me. Yes, all the digital socializing enables us to make that initial connection, but what does it do for us in regards to maintaining that relationship, or cutting those ties? You know what I'm talking about. You part ways with someone, but you are still strapped to them in some form or fashion, because of social media. Their lives are still thrust in front of you on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. They are able to trash-talk you to the world, and you are able to read it. Or, they can move on with someone else, and you are able to see that, too. Your connection to that person lingers on, long after you have parted ways, because they are instantly accessible to you, and you to them. In the days of Jane Austen, they did not struggle with this issue, or at least probably not as much. I am sure that once-couples probably crossed paths in town, or at the occasional ball or social gathering, but for the most part, I would be willing to bet that the longer someone was "out of sight" the more quickly they became "out of mind". No such luck today, unfortunately. Even with every "unfriending" or "blocking" feature we put into place, we are all still out there, tied to each other through mutual contacts and digital social circles. There is no escape, unless you have a heart of stone and are willing to turn a blind eye to it all, which, let's face it, most of us are incapable of doing. If only we still lived in an out-of-sight-out-of-mind sort of world where technological windows did not exist. We would be able to move on from past relationships far more efficiently, and in a more healthy fashion, thus leaving us open to the real love story that just might be waiting for us around the corner.

This isn't a technology-bashing blog. I mean-- I'm sitting here clicking on a laptop, able to broadcast my random train of thought to the world, because of technology and social media. But when it comes to relationships, and getting back to the root of what makes them last, I think that technology, while initially helpful, hurts us in the long-run. It prevents us from achieving a certain level of intimacy that is essential for making that Austen-esque love story that makes us jump up and down and do our "happy dance" over that certain someone (when they aren't looking, of course), possible. Real connections don't last as a result of digital correspondence. They endure because two people make an honest and balanced effort to connect and to build something, whether it is in friendship or romance or something else entirely. Anybody can hit "send". Anybody can "LOL". Anybody can "like" your post on Facebook. Is that what we really what we want to invest in or count on? Really? Connections that barely skim below the surface of who we are? I don't. Perhaps that is why I find so much enjoyment in sitting and watching people have face-to-face social interactions. It renews my faith that maybe there are still people out there who believe in what I believe in-- authentic human connections that survive beyond and beneath the surface of all the technological "conveniences" that, over the span of time, aren't really conveniences at all.

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.