And so it didn't surprise me that the gunman wasn't a father. The only way I could wrap my head around anyone ever doing something so unspeakably tragic was that he just didn't know all that he was doing. He had never tucked his own child into bed and thanked God for the millionth time for giving him such a beautiful, loving, joyful miracle. He hadn't waited for his child's arrival for nine months and taken prenatal vitamins and framed ultrasound pictures and cried with relief and joy at hearing the heartbeat in the doctor's office. He hadn't witnessed the insane miracle that is childbirth, he hadn't seen talented nurses clear his child's airway, he hadn't heard his own child's first cry and thought to himself that it was the most beautiful cry he had ever heard. He hadn't driven 15 mph home from the hospital knowing that suddenly precious cargo was in the back seat, and he hadn't gotten up in the middle of the night to nurse a sweet angel back to sleep. He hadn't watched his child smile then laugh then crawl then walk then talk for the first time, and he sure as hell hadn't held his own child's hand and never wanted to let go. He hadn't worried over his child's health and called pediatricians at 10 p.m. He hadn't hugged a child like a parent hugs his child.
Because if he had, he would never have been able to do it.
He would have known that children are more precious than anything to the mamas and daddies who work and care and love for them. He would have known that despite their short lives they were already--a million times over--the entire world to someone else. He would have known that they were their parents' hearts walking around outside their bodies. He would have known that, yes, they had so much more living yet to do, but they also had already lived so much. They had friends and bedrooms and favorite ice cream flavors and songs they knew the words to. I bet their artwork hung proudly on refrigerators, and their books and socks and shoes decorated their homes. I have a two and a half year old and already it's hard for me to fully remember what my life was like before he was born. His innocence and earnestness and gratitude for the simplest things in life are three of the million reasons I embrace and cherish my role as his mama. He wants so much to learn about and understand this world, and he looks to me and Clay as his guides. He trusts us to take care of him. As a parent, as a person, how can I not do everything in my power to deserve that trust and help him grow?
We adults have a responsibility to our children. All adults. All children. Someone--a whole village really--got each of us to where we are; it is our privilege to likewise help the young and innocent and dependent who look to us for loving guidance.
As a teacher, as a parent, as a person, I simply cannot imagine how anyone could do this. Perhaps I am crying just as much for the 20 year old man who did this as I am for the families whom he robbed of life and love. He so clearly never experienced the humbling gift of loving and being loved by a child. It's transformative.
Like every parent around the country, I held tight to my little one today. As we made pancakes together this morning and he so intently helped me stir the batter, I took a moment to look into his shining eyes. He looked back at me as if he was looking deep into my soul...and then he laughed. A hearty, authentic, throw-your-head-back kind of laugh, and I thought to myself, the gunman must have not looked into the 20 beautiful angels' eyes. It's life-changing. Shame on him. Instead of allowing himself the opportunity one day to be changed by a child's love, he changed these families' lives forever.
We've got to love each other even better, even harder, people. Our children depend on it.
