The weight of this day

I woke up early this morning, shortly before five o'clock. Immediately I had the very conscious thought that exactly three years ago at that time, I was laboring in my midwife's huge tub, close to delivering my son. Isaac was born at 5:05.

My son woke up happy, as he usually does. He gives the best morning hugs. He pretty much just might give the best hugs, period, of anyone, everywhere. I cannot fathom what it would be like never to feel those arms wrapped around me again, never to smell his slightly sour little-boy breath in the mornings, never to hear his full-belly laugh. I cannot fathom what other parents have to somehow survive, because I am quite sure that the loss of these things is unsurvivable.

I fully intended to write here tonight; it's just that I thought it would be a sweet little reflection on my son turning three, on the joy of mothering him and watching him grow. But I can't just write that entry. Everything about this day has been completely reframed.

It's been a difficult day. I don't think anyone will judge me when I say that when I learned about how many children were killed today, all I wanted to do was drive like hell across town and scoop my daughter right up out of class. I hunkered down alone in my classroom and ate exactly one bite of lunch before throwing it in the trash; then I spent twenty minutes sending messages to Matt and my friend Lauren. The general sentiment was Who fucking shoots children. I mean there really is nothing else to say, not right now. Later, maybe I'll be one of the people trying to say something wise, or comforting. Maybe I'll even be one of the preachy opinionated people, because even though we all know how insufferable that is, it's hard to resist. (Hint: I am not going to be one of the people voicing support for the right to own automatic and semi-automatic weapons, which, just, what the hell.)

I allowed myself five minutes of good crying in my classroom. I allowed myself ten minutes of sobbing later on, at home, when I watched President Obama's speech. This is all just completely unacceptable.

So basically: I am broken-hearted, and I am blindingly angry, and I am bewildered and disoriented. As we all are. As we all are. Here's what's tough for me right now: to resist the urge to lash out with all my ideas and opinions about why we are such a violent country. What's tough is to figure out how to direct my anger, to take a step back and calm down as much as I can, to stay present, to be compassionate even when -- especially when -- my emotions and adrenalin are sky-high.

I'm reading Help Thanks Wow and it's helping some. (Dear Anne Lamott, please post about this day soon. Like five minutes ago. Not that it's all about me, but I think I would feel a bit more okay about feeling very not okay. Love, Shari.)

So there's all of that: all of the violence, all of the grief, plus a sizable helping of fear and worry and even sheer terror -- that's the feeling that had me digging my fingernails into my palms today, telling myself that leaving school to go snatch my daughter out of a math lesson that involved graphs and gingerbread cookies was not actually rational or reasonable. But underneath all of that is something else: grace, and gratitude, and joy.

Because my son is three years old today, and my day began and ended with kissing his still-chubby cheeks. Because in three years, not a day has gone by without moments of pure joy. Because tonight both of my children tumbled into my arms at once for hugs. Because they were irritating each other in the car, squabbling over who was touching who, or who was too close to whose side, and all I could think was that tonight, even their bickering was music to my ears because I never, ever want to know what it feels like to know I'll never hear that again. Because I get to have both of my children tonight. Because that's not guaranteed for any of us, ever, whether our children go to public or private school, whether we walk or drive or fly, whether we lock our doors or only shop in the nice malls in the good parts of town or eat all our organic veggies.

Tomorrow we will have Isaac's real birthday celebration with his Uncle Aaron and Auntie Morgan, two more of his people. We will have cake and presents and there will be laughter and probably lots of silliness (my brother is not "Silly Uncle Aaron" for nothing), but tonight is just the deep comfort of being together and celebrating our little "Eye-gick."

Today has completely changed the way I'm looking at his birthday, because obviously I am a little bit of a mess, worried and broken and all that. But it's also full of gratitude that drives me to my knees, and joy, because joy is what my children are, they are joy personified, they are hope, they are everything that is right with the world.

Right now, tonight, both of my children are tucked safely into their beds. They fell asleep feeling loved. They fell asleep hugged and kissed. And I get to have them. Tonight, I get to have them.