Appreciating Everyday Magic.

On December 14th, our advent activity was a visit to Santa Claus, and that morning, Rudy and I met her little-sister-friend Paige at a playspace while both of their big sisters were busy and safe at school.  While we were there, Paige's mom Mary checked her Facebook and told me someone had posted something about a nightmare happening in an elementary school in Connecticut.

On the way home, Rudy fell asleep, so I listened to the news, freely sobbing while she napped in her carseat behind me.  And then I dealt with several phone calls from my mother's nursing home, because the doctor there wanted her to see a neurologist after yet another night involving a decision about going to the emergency room.  In between these calls, I paced and cried and called Todd and hugged Rudy and waited until Marley would get off her bus so that I could hug her, too.

It's too much.  That night, we went to visit Santa, and of course it was magical and sweet, but this year, that made me teary, and this year, on the inside, I felt like screaming and pulling out my hair.  Now, since two and a-half weeks have passed, I am less raw with weeping, and I know that others must be, too, but I still spend moments absent-mindedly stroking my daughters' hair and feeling like my heart is cracking because of what those families are still going through.  They have to wake up every morning and remember that their nightmare is real, every morning. 

I attempted to treasure every little smile, and every sweet and stinky breath that came out of my girls' mouths for those first few days. I read the longer bedtime stories and held onto my temper three times as long when there was whining or arguing or a mess.  I felt guilty when I did lose my temper.  And just two weeks later, it's that much harder to hold onto my temper for longer than normal, and at the same time, I know that I can't send Marley off to school each morning anxious or afraid or trying to memorize exactly what she said on the way to the bus stop.

I really don't have any eloquent way to end a post about something I still can't think about for long.  I turn away from the People magazine cover at the checkout line, and the only television news I have let myself watch, even now, were Obama's brief address and later, his speech at the memorial service.  I just know that I am hugging and kissing my sweet and innocent girls and saying, "I love you," much, much more than usual.