How The Shooting Changed Me

"It was senseless"

"It was tragic"

"Why did it happen?"

"Where was God?"

There has been much said with regards to the horrific elementary school shooting that took place two weeks ago and there's not really anything new I can add.  I don't know why it happened.  I don't know where God was.  I don't have any answers.  But what I do know is that those events changed me as a parent...for better and for worse.

Even before the shooting happened, I was the type of parent who seized almost every moment and carpe diem-ed the hell out of it.  Both the good moments and the bad (but mostly the good).  Even when Miss K's head is spinning and she's having a total meltdown, I am in complete parent-mode, trying to keep my cool, and see it as a teachable moment for both of us.  For Miss K, it's about how to properly handle her emotions.  For myself, it waivers back and forth from finding new distracting techniques to take K's mind off whatever is causing the meltdown; other times, the learning moment is about how to properly pinch her without leaving marks.

I kid, of course.

I am not a perfect parent.  I am not a perfect anything (although I can smoke a cigarette in three drags so  I'd say I'm almost a perfect smoker, but I don't think there are any accolades for that). What I'm saying is that from day one, I have been very aware of how fleeting time is and how quickly children grow.  I have been thankful that my children are healthy, happy and will never know anything short of an innocent childhood.  The shootings have made me even more aware of the preciousness of life and how quickly it can be ripped away from you. I have seized even more moments.  The instant that Miss K asks me to play with her, I drop whatever I am doing and I play with her.  The dishes really can wait.  Those emails don't have to be instantly responded to.  I can put the laundry away after she's in bed.  She will only be little for a short while.  This is how the shootings changed me for the better.

So, how have they changed me for the worse?  My parental discipline is starting to slip.  I want my children to grow up to be the opposite of spoiled brats who feel like the world owes them.  I want my children to know failure and hurt and disappointment (at an age-appropriate level).  I want them to be independent and brave and sweet and well-mannered.  I want them to respect rules and have routines and know the limits.  But I'm pushing some of those to the way-side because I feel guilty (there's a shocker) that my children are alive, while there are twenty parents who would give anything to hear their child have another tantrum.

Bedtime is the worst.  Mainly because I cry.  A lot.  I cry when I'm reading Miss K her bedtime story.  I cry when she starts to refuse to lay down nicely and just rest until she falls asleep.  I cry when I inevitably have to close her door as an "I mean it!" signal.  And then I cry even harder when I hear her calling, "Mommy! I need you! I'm scared!".  I cry because I know every single one of those twenty beautiful children would have been thinking that exact same thing.  They needed their mommy.  And it's at that point that I rush back down the hall to scoop up Miss K and rock her until she falls asleep.  Sometimes she falls asleep quickly.  Other times, she plays with my necklace or sticks her hands between my boobs because I once made a joke about there being potato chips in my bra.  Either way, I quietly cry, letting my tears slip down onto her head as I inhale the scent of her freshly shampooed hair and I pray that I will have many, many more nights to cuddle my baby girl.

I don't know where God was during the shooting, but I know exactly where he is each and every night that I put Miss K to bed.