More. Just more.

Sleep hasn't come easily since Friday  I am having a hard time not inserting myself in the tragedy - A hard time separating my life from the lives of others.

It's not that I'm scared.  I'm not.  I haven't felt worry during the school day - I'm not any more cautious today than last week.  Seriously.  If it is going to happen, sadly, there is little or nothing I can do to stop it.  And I don't believe it will mostly because who DOES believe it will?  Who thinks that way?  It's a horror beyond horror and can stop a person from functioning.  Living in terror is no way to live. 

But, I'm having a hard time not putting myself there - I keep inserting myself.  In the dark hours of the day, I keep inserting myself, my students, and my child.   I can't sleep soundly.   I think of the horror of trying to keep children safe.  And I think of those poor little souls' horror as they waited and listened and cried for their mamas.  I keep feeling how scared they were.   They died.  Nobody could save them. They were killed.  Sweet, sweet babies.  Each one of them innocent. 

I know I could step in front of a bullet for any child.  That doesn't concern me. I could.  What keeps me awake is the thought of their terror.  I see these little faces.  And in those faces I am imagining,  I see the faces of my students - They trust me so much. These little people spend more awake hours with me than they do their parents.  I spend more awake time with them than I do with my own child.  These little people that are so sure I love them and can keep them safe.  I can not stand the thought of them terrified for their lives.  How horrible it must have been to be a teacher to those 20 sweet and innocent children - The person standing in place of their parents.  I often remind myself that each one of the children in my class is someones Eli.  The center of someones world.  I know I could do whatever I could to protect them.  What keeps me awake is - Could I give them comfort in that moment?  Could I ease their terror?  Would my presence ease the fear just a bit?  How could I comfort all of them at once?  How could I be for them what I'd want someone to be for Eli in sucha  horrible moment? 

So, I watch my students walk down the hall to get a drink or use the bathroom and I imagine those kids in Newtown.  Those poor, sweet kids.  And I know how their teachers felt. I think I know anyway.  Only, I hope I'll never really know.  I hope and pray (yes, even in school) that I will never be called upon to comfort a child in their darkest hour.  I hope I will never see a child die. I do not know how I could survive that. 

I am a parent too.

Being a mother,  I can't help but insert myself as a parent in the horror.  I can't say that I am loving Eli more in light of the hell that has been endured.   Nor am I  holding him closer. I know what I have and I always have known what I have.  He is my gift - A gift I am barely worthy of.   I love him so deeply it scares me.  Sometimes I can't remember where I end and he begins.  I can't separate my life from his.  He's at the age, I know, where he needs me so deeply and I am so ever present in every moment of every day.  An age where sometimes I wish he would be able to step away from me for just a moment.  He needs me in every aspect right now.    But, his need for me won't end in a year or two or more.   I know that too.   I will love him like this always and he will need me like this always.  No more tomorrow than today.  No more today than yesterday.  I love him until I ache and I have since we came together. Sometimes this love makes me cry in joy or sorrow or fear.   I am not special, though.  I love him like all mothers love their child.  I love him fierce and gentle.  Angry and forgiving.  Wild and calm.  I love him more than my life.  It's this love that keeps me from sound sleep right now.

It's this love that means I can't help but insert myself there - In the role of parent who doesn't know and is terrified and searching.  I insert myself as a parent who loses it all and has to decide how to lift her head and walk forward.  The horror is too much.  I'm no more special than any other mother - Nobody out there is chosen because she can handle it.  Nobody thinks this is a load they can bear. 

It can be any single one of us.  At any single time.  And then what?  Then what?  How?

Then grace finds us, if we're lucky.   If it has to.

Please, God.  Not me. 

Here's what I know - I will sleep soundly again.  Someday soon, I will pull my blanket up to my chin and turn on my side and drift off easily. I will fall asleep blissfully again as my interruption is only temporary.    That day will come sooner for me than for others who are broken tonight. I will sleep as soundly as I possibly can since becoming a mother.  It's not as soundly as I once did because before Eli I didn't have the world to lose.   Some parents will never close their eyes again without seeing their child because those parents have lost the world.  They will see their child's fear - Someday they may be lucky to close their eyes and see their smiles.   I know there are mothers out there that are tonight who are wondering about their child's last minute.   I am awake because I can't stop thinking of mothers who have had to say goodbye far too early.  Mothers who right now are on their knees - Broken. 

And God forgive me.  Tonight, I am so thankful I am not that mother.

And I pray I never will be.