Like a Mother
Like so many mothers do during the late night hours spent rocking in the dark, humming and shushing and holding a warm little body close as it drifts off to sleep, those babies’ moms undoubtedly memorized every inch of their bodies.
The taut wrist roll where soft, chubby arm met pudgy little hand;
The swirl of a cowlick as dark, shiny hair grew thicker by the day;
The curl of long lashes as wide, innocent eyes stared up at the mama who made them feel safe and loved.
These mothers knew the feeling of your heart existing outside your body in the form of a tiny human who will never truly know the depth of your love for them until they experience the same phenomenon for themself.
These parents felt the simultaneous warmth of pride and the sting of time-gone-too-fast sadness as their babies went from laying to sitting to crawling to walking, eventually running through the doors of their elementary school, backpacks thrown over their shoulders, pausing only long enough to turn around and wave goodbye with beaming smiles on their faces.
Like many parents, they might even have playfully urged their babies to “never grow up” and stay this little and sweet forever, never imagining that their words could turn literal and cast an eternal shadow across once-tender memories.
These kids’ parents spent the last two years — for most of the victims, nearly a quarter of their lives — trying to shield them from an invisible threat that stole the breath from the lungs of over a million people, proving twice as deadly for the friends, neighbors, and family who looked like them. Once it was finally deemed safe for the little ones to return to school — hallowed halls where learning, imagination, and growth are meant to be protected — it proved not to be “safe” at all.
How much of these children’s short lives were spent simply fighting to survive? How much of their parents’ lives will be spent wishing they could take their place?
Like so many mothers have this past week, I’ve felt myself grieve for children who aren’t mine, imagining the unimaginable loss of these tender babes taken far too soon.
Grieved lives stolen through the cruelty of one monster and the repeated inaction of others.
What’s more, I’ve grieved my own sense of outrage, horrified first and foremost at the heinous crime committed, but secondly at the fact that the only word in the breaking news headlines that got an emotional rise out of me was “elementary.” Gutted that the grocery stores, night clubs, churches, high schools, theaters, city streets, homes, and workplaces that came before have numbed my senses to the pain of gun violence, only to be brought into sharp focus when these young victims felt like they could be mine.
I’ve grieved the innocence of my own son, and that of his peers, doomed to a future of active shooter drills and the omnipresent threat of mass violence that our leaders simply can’t be bothered to dam at the source.
I’ve grieved the celebratory purity of future parental rites of passage: hugging my son goodbye on his first day of school, worried only that he will miss me too much. Trustingly leaving him in the care of others during his first scout meeting, sleepover, or field trip. Blowing kisses from the window of the car as I drive away to my first carefree weekend away from my little guy. Will it ever be possible to experience these without an overwhelming fear in the back of my mind, vivid scenes playing in my imagination where everything ends in sirens and blood spatter?
In a moment of panic behind the wheel of my boxed-in car when a violent altercation broke out on the sidewalk beside me, I grieved my baby’s childhood with a caring mother to nurture and guide him. In a flash of fear, I imagined how one quick trip to the store for watermelon and bread could rob him of a mother before his tiny mouth has even learned to speak the word, “Mama.”
I’ve grieved the kinship I once felt with my fellow Americans, under the illusion that we would all do the right thing to preserve the safety and security of our fellow humans because it’s what’s right. Instead, after spending a pandemic witnessing the distinct selfishness of my statesmen choosing minor individual convenience over the critical needs of the community, I’ve developed a heightened awareness for the same theme repeating in every other area of life in this country. Already, I’ve seen fingers pointed everywhere but the triggers they so enjoy pulling for sport, no matter how much reputable data confirms that guns are the problem.
I’ve preemptively grieved the lives that will be lost today, tomorrow, and the days beyond due to the gun violence that persists at record highs, without any substantial legislative action to stop the flow of bullets into bodies.
Like so many mothers will in the weeks, months, and years to come, I will find a way to make a difference in my corner of the world.
In perhaps a feeble attempt to make it make sense, I will sport my orange shirt, fill in my ballot bubbles, donate my dollars, and navigate uncomfortable conversations with the people in my life determined to protect their ability to amass unchecked firearms over the lives of mere children.
I will amplify the firsthand accounts and support the journalists and fundraise for the causes that refuse to yield to the lobbyists and bad-faith arguments and pandering politicians who’ve kept us in this mess for far too long.
I will volunteer my time as an activist for gun sense, even as the sharp sting of this tragedy fades into a dull ache.
I will hold my baby tight and try not to take his innocent smiles, heartwarming giggles, unrestrained affection, and morning wake-ups for granted — no matter how tired I am — because those mourning parents would give anything for even one more minute with their babies wrapped in their arms.
I will be brave enough to fight for a better tomorrow.
