I hope that as time passes on we will begin to think rationally about clear ways to protect our children, our most valuable blessings. While we cannot possibly shield our children from all evil and negative things, I know as a parent that it is my power, my control, my right, my utter obligation to raise my children and protect them.  I hope that the loss of innocent children will ignite an honest look at our seemingly willing obliviousness. Blame is the first thing to get tossed around. Blame media, guns, violence, mental illness, and the list goes on. So let’s get real about it-

Mental Illness-I have seen firsthand the horrible and apathetic status of the mental health system in this country. In our zeal to preserve rights to those with special needs and not offend, we have created a system of zero responsibility by default. As a foster parent, we had children in our home who will someday be Adam Lanza or the CO theater shooter. When an adorable four year old pulls knives to other children’s throats or throws the baby down the stairs because they didn’t get the snack they wanted, something is broken inside. This child needed intensive, inpatient treatment. His psychiatrist described him as “Macauley Caulkin’s character in The Good Son”. He would be wonderfully normal to everyone, smiling and happy, then when your back was turned he would take his little sister and shove her in the closet and just begin beating her until she bleed from her lip. This child is now a teenager. He will be in prison someday, he will kill soon. The system turned their back on him. Stating his age and “he is just a child”. All fragmented thoughts of soon-to-be killers are formed  in childhood. We just don’t want to believe it. We want to see the beautiful child with wonderful potential. We don’t want to see the evil, tearing thoughts that were borne in the horrible depravity that he endured his first three years of life at the hands of a meth mother and absent, imprisoned, banger father.  Scars so deep that only intense, expensive therapy will ever put the healing salve he needed to move forward and feel life normal.  But the state said no. Too expensive, not enough money, too much time. They will spend the money. A whole lot more money when he sits in prison for the better part of his adult life for the loss of innocent life.

Violence and Media-Parents, this is your zone. Be a parent. Don’t relegate or willingly pass off your right to be the parent. You decide what is appropriate for your home.  With open conversation you can determine the level of violence you believe is safe for your kids. Doing this requires a real relationship with your children. An active, vocal, consistent relationship that is open to a talk about what they just heard on the news or the ability to come and ask without a fight, yelling, or condemnation in some form. We want our children to learn to be adults. As they grow up, our involvement should wean itself and they should be maturing in a manner that is responsible and trustworthy. This does not happen by itself! It takes work every day by parents! Have you listed everything you want your child to be able to do by themselves as adults? Make a list. Not a dream sheet of what you want them to be. A real list-how to balance a checkbook, how to give to charity wisely, how to do laundry, how to avoid peer pressure, how to be respectful, how to control anger even if you are right, the list goes on. Then work backwards. When should a child learn this concept? By age 16, we expect our teens to become responsible drivers. But, what are we doing to prepare the responsible part far before 16? Think about it.  As a future teacher, I see high school students who don’t tell me their ideas not because they think they are wrong, but because a parent, an adult in authority, has never asked them before, never taken the time to listen and hear. Our children are capable of so many things. It is up to us how we harness those things-good and bad. We build the channels that our children swim in, why not make them a productive swim? Not a serene float down the river on a plush yacht or a near-drowning rapid deluge that never seems to end.  A rigorous swim full of options to engage and build up the child with a capable canoe, life vest, and efficent paddles. Think about the words you say to your child or lack of words. It speaks so many more volumes. 

Guns-Weapons are here to stay whether we like it or not. Weapons will be needed in the hands of every police officer, secret service, security or other personnel trained to use a weapon. Outlawing anything only demands compliance. The sheer nature of outlawing anything begs the question of why it should be outlawed in the first place. Criminals will find a way no matter how hard you put up barriers, walls, rules, laws. Inmates in prison are supposedly secluded. They have cell phones, drugs, and alcohol. These are not allowed but somehow they have access to it. How? Because if someone doesn’t regard the law it truly does not matter how much we put up barriers, they will find a way. 

Tragedy is awful. It is horrendous. I cannot possibly imagine the heartache. I am states away and I feel a heaviness of heart. I propose you turn the finger pointing around. Look at yourself, your heart, your actions. What are you doing to encourage or discourage? Parent-are you actively involved in your kid’s life? Do they see it by your actions and attitude? Or is it barely there, a mute interaction only conducted by the shuffling through the house or the yell to do the chores? What are you doing to help others? Are you investing in people or possessions? Seriously think. Don’t justify your actions and I won’t justify mine. No one is perfect but there is hope and second chances. Don’t give up on you children or your country. There will always be an option towards redemption, it just depends how much you really value it.

The Steady Drip

I had to write a personal narrative for a class on literacy. Here is my contribution. I redid it several times for fear the much younger students in the class would ever understand what I meant....

I can feel them sifting through my fingers, like a fist full of flour. How I wish I could grasp them tighter and not let them fall through. But, I am powerless to stop the hands of time that slowly, dutifully carry away my precious minutes.  I panic at the thought. Did I do enough to give them my best? Is there something I could do better? Then, the alarm bell rings. My day is taking off without me. I mentally recall the crowded list of all to be done-laundry, call the doctor, read that chapter, check on dates, pack the dance bag, menu planning for the week (that means grocery shopping), swim practice for Jenna, drop off Em at sewing class, grab Jake’s science kit parts, take Mom to her doctor, plan Ella’s birthday…coffee! I need coffee. As my feet hit the cold wood of the floor, I am bombarded by two sweet girls. Twirling around in their very own handpicked, multi-patterned outfits, they rattle off their breakfast choices. Mental note-match clothes before putting in drawers! I slowly walk down the hall, stopping at the first door to awake my only boy. He is gruff. Not like the mornings of a few years ago. He would climb so softly into bed with me. His round little face pressed up against my nose. His little boy fingers would rub the soft inside of my forearm as he gazed into my eyes. We always had a silent conversation between us. It started way back in those cold hospital rooms we so often shared. My sweet, little boy so full of empathy for the tough deck he had stacked against his short life so far, promptly covered his head to avoid the light. I remind him of a shower. This is the second day. Girls don’t like smelly boys. He pops up, grabs his crumpled jeans out of the half closed dresser drawer, picks up a hopelessly wrinkled shirt off the floor and after giving it a good sniff, trudges past me down the hall to the bathroom locking the door. No hug, no love, no sweet little boy fingers on my arm. Reality snaps quick. Em and El begin to tug my arms because hunger calls. As I arrive in the kitchen, a whirl of Dream Angels Heavenly, Neutrogena, and hairspray rushes past me. Bye Mom. The good day I wish her follows to slow as the door slams and she is gone for the day. I only have three years left. Then she will be gone every morning. I can feel my breath quickening, this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. Have I done enough? Could I do something better?  I am yanked out of my shower of guilt by two faces, jumping up and down. Dinosaur egg oatmeal and waffles with Nutella fit the breakfast bill. I clasp my coffee mug tight and glance over at their sweet faces, seven and nearly five. They still cuddled with me, but for how much longer?

The day is a whirlwind of activity. By noon, I have crossed off half my list! Over a quick lunch with my Mom and El before the doctor appointment, I see worry in my Mom’s face. She never let on until now. I searched her for more clues. She told me not to worry, that it would all be okay. I don’t buy it. That is Mom-speak for I’m freaking worried out of my ever-loving mind but I really don’t want to bother anyone about it. Great, I need to add a few more things to my list. Am I so busy I didn’t see something was weighing on her so great? Where is that faucet to turn on my guilt shower? She reaches across and locks onto my eyes. Don’t worry. But, my list comes out and I mentally write a few more lines.

By now my day is grindingly slow but light speed fast. Things aren’t getting marked through my list. Errands, homework, phone calls, laundry, dirty bathroom, dinner, none of it is getting done. I can feel myself begin to tense up. My shoulders ache. I sit down for a brief moment when a small hand taps ever so softly on my knee. A dinosaur paraphernalia book clasped tightly against her chest. Read, now? I have so much to be done but I look at her sweet toffee colored eyes. Start the shower. So I grab up El and crack open the wearily worn encyclopedia of all things dinosaur. Time flies by as we turn weathered page after page, looking at all the near science fiction displayed before us. El recounts the best one or the one with the smallest arms. Her eyes brighten and my list comes out. Black marker obliterates a line. Her words come exploding out. A story is created. Now we must paint it! My list lurks in front of me. Anxiety starts, I won’t have enough time to cross all this off my list. Deadlines loom. Please, Mommy. Forget the shower, just fill the tub.

As the evening draws near, the suburban becomes my residence. Dance, swim, and sewing class beckon. Maybe I can pull double duty and cross off those science items at the same time! I manage to cram in some reading as I wait on each child and that helps mark another black line right off my list. With my four kids safely buckled in, I ask about their day. The age factor shows in their response. A shrug and a feeble “fine” from the teen, “nothing much” from the boy, and an unending story about this girl who wore Hannah Montana (who is so last year) and how this boy tried to kiss her flows from Em. I sigh audibly. My list comes out once more. Get them to talk. Get them to connect with you scrawls hastily in the black ink of my mind. The sifting flour of my dreams permeates my thoughts. Then the panic as I wheel out my overflowing tub of guilt. Did I do enough? Could I do something better?

The door to the house flings open as I reach to unlock it. My rock stands in the doorway. He scoops me up and holds me tight. I can smell the delicious scent of curry, peanuts, and chicken. Out comes the list as I melt away in his embrace. The black marker draws through a few more lines. Dinner is delicious and even more so since I was not the cook! Conversation is choppy at best with Jenna and Jake but the demanding voices of Em and El drown out the awkward silence. Once more I wonder if I have done enough? What could I do better? The older two wolf down their food only to return to their bedroom caves for homework and the occasional sly text. My man and I double team the little girls to get them ready for bed. Baths, lotion, pajamas, and a great book are crossed off the list. Sweet, little kisses on each forehead and a softly spoken I love you floats through the air as we turn off the light. We set about doing the tidying up in the house with the last bit of energy we both possess. Exhausted, we collapse onto the sofa for a little bit of TV. Instead of cueing up the DVR, we start to talk about our day. I wheel out my list and my near flood stage tub of guilt. His hand, calloused by life’s work, feels gentle and kind. It is like a warm knife to a cold stick of butter. My list begins to fade. He reassures me. Our kids are fine. Emma designed and sewed a new pair of pants today. Jenna shaved 3 seconds off her fly. Jake was given the spirit award for his encouraging attitude and helpful spirit in class. Ella sounded out five new words today.  I feel safe. It will be okay if I can just unplug my tub.

When weariness of the day finally comes to claim our waking minds, a soft knock is heard on our door. Mom, can I talk to you, come the words out of her teenage mouth. Like a shot of adrenaline to my heart, I suddenly have the energy of 500. Yes! I always have time for you my sweet child. Shreds of my mental list fall all around me, dotting my bed with inked marks and I listen as time flies by and its ok. I did enough and in the distance, the sound of gurgling water drains.