Today is one of those days where I feel like I have a lot to say, but none of it is coming together in my head in any coherent way.
Boston. Oh, wow. I think I am processing this the best anyone could, but it just stays with me. The bombings happened, and since we don’t really know, yet, who or why, that’s all I have. They happened. Lots of people were hurt. Three people died. I am, of course, horrified that this could take place in my country. My country that I thought was above this, safe from this. Not a country where suicide bombers are part of weekly, if not daily life. Not even a country where bombings are monthly or annual events. The USA, the United States, America! We are a lot of things to a lot of people around the world, but not this. We have drunk driving that kills people, gun violence that kills people, teenage suicide from bullying, obesity, cancer from questionable food additives, blah, blah, blah! But people do NOT regularly die in bombings here! And the only people you hear of with limbs blown off lost them while over in one of those other countries fighting for ours! So, I’m processing all that.
But then I see another picture of Martin Richard. I’m sure you’ve seen this picture by now, it’s all over the news channels and social media. It’s so dear and so sweet, and what an innocent face. And he’s holding that poster with that message. “No more hurting people.” That’s not a line a teacher gave him. I don’t know what the assignment was, but it wasn’t “print ‘no more hurting people’ at the top of the page.” That came from him. That came from his own heart. Every time I see this picture I get weepy. Somehow I just can’t process the death of this one eight-year-old. Sandy Hook saw the deaths of 20 kids, not to mention the six adults, and it was horrible and I cried and I grieved. Somehow, it was easier? No, that’s not the word, just more readily processed. Maybe that it was so big. Maybe because there were ALL those sweet faces flashed on our screens every night for weeks, even as the networks worked to tell us a bit about each child. Maybe it desensitized me a bit from the real pain of that tragedy. Maybe. I don’t know. All I know is that Martin is harder for me to wrap my head around. I have an eight-year-old boy, but he was just seven, a second grader, when Sandy Hook happened, just a year older than those innocents. I don’t KNOW why it’s so much harder, but it is. The child had just run, in utter joy, to hug his father at the finish line. I haven’t seen any pictures of those moments, if they exist, but I can picture it. And I do picture it. I can’t help picturing it. That father-son hug in a moment of triumph. It haunted my dreams last night.
But then, I do want to talk about the other stuff in my life, because, well, it is moving on. The main tasks in my life right now (namely feeding, cleaning, cleaning after, and supervising three kids) don’t wait for me to sit and watch the news and try to figure out how I feel about the death of a child I never met. It isn’t my job to find the perpetrators. I can’t help with the investigation. I’ll get on with life and pray for all those whose jobs those are. I’ll pray for Martin’s family, and all the others who were killed or injured and their families. I’ll pray for me and my family. I’ll keep doing laundry and making meals.
And potty training. I’ll get on with the potty training. As best I can, anyway. I’m sort of on this ride alone now, I think. He showed a little interest yesterday, so we jumped on that. Two hours and four pairs of underpants later, my patience was worn out, there was half a roll of paper towel in the garbage, and Baby Bird got a mid-dinner bath. I’m glad he showed some interest and I hope my frustration didn’t show too much, but I would not say it was a successful day. If I get that load of laundry done, we’ll try again this afternoon.
My weigh-in was Monday. I mentioned that I was up a bit. Not much, just about a pound, but that’s the wrong direction, isn’t it? As of this morning, I’d dropped that and another half-pound, so I have high hopes for next week’s official weigh-in. I was bummed about the wrong direction of this week’s number, but really, it isn’t too bad. Consider that last Thursday I ate a big dinner of rouladen and spaetzle at a local German restaurant in Kent. And Saturday night I had wine and cheese with my girlfriends. And Sunday after the hymnfest there was a wine and cheese reception, though I did call that dinner. So, really that little bit wasn’t so bad. I’m rather proud of myself for jumping right back on the wagon this week. Of course, Thursday through Sunday is always the hardest, so here we go…
I have to get moving. A couple pounds have come off, but only a few. I have to get moving. I know it, but I don’t like it. I’m not going to think about that anymore today. Maybe tomorrow.