It's been one of those days. The one where he suddenly doesn't understand the word no. The one where there are tears over everything like when you put away your pots from under the breakfast table and he sobs, sticking them right back where they were. The one where lollipops must be had and there is a persisting belief that the louder the wails the likelier said lollipops will appear from thin air. The one where folded laundry scatters throughout the house. And you watch him remove all the clean silverware from the kitchen drawer and proceed to fill them into the dirty dishwasher and because you are so physically down-to-the-bone tired, you just sit down and let him. It's a Sesame Street encore sort of day, where Elmo dances and you dream of sleek black power suits, comfortable office chairs, and one-hour lunches.
And then you see the news. And you know you would take one hundred days like today. Ten hundred. Every day. Like today. To not have a day like these parents who lost their children in this horrible heinous unspeakable situation are experiencing as I write these words.
He's napping now. The house, silent. What will I get when I wake up? A well-rested child restored to good cheer? Or Tasmanian Devil Part 2? It doesn't really matter, does it? Because I will get him, good mood, bad mood, somewhere in between, I will get my son to hold in my arms and to, I pray, put to bed at night, and to wake me up earlier than I would like tomorrow morning. Nothing in life is guaranteed, least of all life. It should never take a tragedy of this sort to remind me of this simple truth.
My thoughts and prayers are with the parents of the children who lost their lives today. Not that this will be enough. Nothing will ever be enough for them anymore.